


Hunting With Bullets

by Oni216



Category: I Brought You My Bullets You Brought Me Your Love - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Day, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood and Injury, Bullets Era, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, Friendship, I Brought You My Bullets You Brought Me Your Love, Just Broken Bois, Mikey Way - Freeform, Minor Character Death, No Romance, No Smut, Other, Psychological Trauma, Ray Toro - Freeform, Religious Content, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, frank iero - Freeform, gerard way - Freeform, my chemical romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oni216/pseuds/Oni216
Summary: Having a band is the perfect cover to fight evil that lurks in the dark. It provides distraction, a reason to live, and decent lyrics for no one to fully understand. And it takes its toll.It always takes a toll.





	Hunting With Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the picture at the link below. Please don't be too harsh. Thanks.
> 
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/848ff27762567085039b48a29c4d0d3f/tumblr_ps72sjL9ll1s4as6yo1_1280.png

It was too dark for sunglasses.

It was also too dark for anyone to tell he was wearing them. Not like he cared in the light; out here, no one could call him out. Strangers tended to be judgmental about that sort of thing.

The cigarette flicked between his two fingers often, a nervous tick that reared its head, even when he was unconscious to it. Otherwise, his body was still; just a twitch in the fingers, silent breaths that only became audible with a quick inhale, then huff of smoke respectively.

Under and near his shoes, there were cigarette butts, cartons, and scattered pieces of a torn chip bag, crumbs and plastic embedded into the loose gravel and asphalt, turned a soot gray. He shouldn’t have been able to see them. Ray needed to knock the streetlight out, a task that should have been done earlier.

The smell of the Dumpster was beginning to grow overwhelming, even with the smoke trailing lazy wisps from the tips of his fingers, to his nose and lips. On the worst of days, Dumpster diving had been their only option, but putting those desperate happenstances behind them made him soft. Frank would advise him to jump back into the metal box and expose himself to the intense scent trip all over again. That’s why Frank wasn’t going to know about his nausea.

The breeze blowing through almost made Gerard choke and gag, but when he gained enough sense to hold his breath, the sweat that had gathered above his eyebrows and the nape of his neck cooled, if only for a moment.

He put out the depleted butt under his heel, reaching into his pocket with the intention of chain-smoking, so long as he had quiet outside.

Well, there was thrumming of bass tones behind him, but compared to what was coming, this was as peaceful as it was gonna get.

The pack of Marlboros jumbled alongside the knife in his pocket. Using it wouldn’t be very ideal, stage-performance aside.

“Yo, chimney sweep.”

Gerard’s cigarette remained unlit in his mouth, as he gazed up to see Frank leaning out the back door. His makeup was finished, tonight having a high amount of unintentional smudging on and under his eyelids. It was a mess, and punk as hell.

“We’re up in five,” he said, stepping out and plucking the now-lit cancer stick from Gerard’s mouth and into his own. “Your hair looks like shit.”

“What else is new. How’s the filler?”

“Shit tech skills, but he can roll like a motherfucker.” His words came through a solid cloud of smoke.

“He’ll be fine, no one’ll be worse than Todd.”

“Damn straight.”

With his mouth unstimulated, he took to tracing the outline of his jeans pockets with both hands. “Ray didn’t get the light.”

With another puff, Frank looked up to see the yellow lamp on the other side of the alley, giving them long shadows and the only light through the dark passage, save for colored lights bleeding through the cracks in the club’s door.

“You sure you want it out? Our chances of being -”

“Mikey’ll flip if it isn’t,” he said simply. It was easy to blame routine and paranoia on him; it tended to be true.

Frank rolled his eyes and reached into one of his multitude of pockets, giving Gerard his half-smoked stick back.

“Fine, but he better cut his nails after this, tit for tat. Fingers and toes.”

Gerard’s smile was brief, but Frank seemed to take it as the okay, and with one eye focused and the other squinting for aim, he let a single bullet fly from the rubber pouch of the slingshot.

The result was immediate, a single crack acting as the snap of fingers, dousing the light and leaving them in bleak conditions. Or bleaker, rather.

“Alright, bright eyes,” Frank concluded. “Showtime.”

Gerard nodded, putting out the light as Frank traced the wall with his hand to the door’s latch. “Numbers?”

“What, the crowd or the freaks?”

Gerard shrugged, recalling Frank’s blindness. “Freaks.”

“Two or three, according to brother brilliant and his connection. Don’t let him use the bar again, he hit both me and himself in the shin.”

“Then give him your bat?” he suggested.

He snorted. “No fucking way. Let him steal Toros, my baby’s fine with me.”

~

While their singer was a worthy opponent in the shaggy-and-wild hair category, no one could beat him yet with his own locks of steel and utter power. No matter how he slept or kept away from combs, it stayed put; same as trying to tame it through a fuckton of conditioner. It was something he was at peace with, and it offered a good conversation starter.

This time, however, he didn’t need the prompt, the freak with a four-inch mohawk sporting a Megadeth shirt that led to a well-meaning debate on whether or not Mustaine deserved to break up the band, or if they could survive without him.

Either way, it allowed for the sharing of a beer and enough time to pass until he needed to get back on stage and tune his axe for their set.

The band before them were… amateur, the bassist unable to hold a beat, and the guitarist truly believing he himself was the next Wolfmother. They had a little ways to go before graduating from shithole dive bars to shithole basement venues.

Still, their drummer volunteered to give them full background, and he wasn’t a total dick. He’d take what they could get.

“You playing tonight?” the patron asked, mouth tight.

“Yeah, we’re up next.” The flicker and bounce of light from the other side of the room seemed to call his attention back. “Gotta go set up.”

“Good luck. Rock on, man.”

He excused himself and made a beeline for the kid in the overcoat, ultimately comfortable despite the heat and humidity sticking to the poster-covered walls.

“Did you slip it?” Mikey asked, scrunching his lips.

“Yeah, no brainer. We’re gonna need more soon.”

“Trenton’s gonna have more,” his flat tone assured him. “”Brian’ll hook us up.”

Ray gave him an up and down body inspection, since his brother had disappeared a few minutes ago. “You gonna be okay? Your arm…”

“It’s fine.” He waved it off with a shrug, lacking a wince or face of pain. “I’m worried about you and Frank getting out on time.”

“It’ll be okay. It’s not like you and Gerard can’t fend for yourselves, worse comes to worst.”

“I’m worried about him.” Despite the statement being said, his voice stayed flat, displaying a simple errant thought rather than tangible worry. “He’s been slipping ever since that asshole gave him jacked coke a few weeks back.”

“We all just need rest. We get the day off, day after tomorrow.”

“Thank God.” The urge to cross himself seemed to possess his arm for a moment, but Mikey settled for pushing his glasses up.

The band’s set ended, and the kid sitting behind the drum kit wasted no time in reaching them, face soaked in sweat and pupils blown black. Was he on something?

“You ready to gear up?” the kid asked.

Mikey’s mouth contorted, while Ray gave a single glance towards the bar. Megadeth was busy polishing off his beer, paying them no mind.

“Yeah, let’s hit it. Mikey, pull Frank out of the damn bathroom before he wastes another charcoal stick.”

~

“ _ My time on earth is getting slim! _ ”

The words scraped Gerard’s throat, calling everyone in the dive to focus on him.

Screaming wasn’t his preferred method of artistic expression—singing wasn’t even ranked first —but it made the most sense for the crowd they aimed to please: low lifes, metalheads, freaks.

So scream he did, and those playing behind him pounded on their instruments like tomorrow wasn’t meant to come, each beat holding back the twist of the earth to keep night in perpetual suspension. For the few minutes they performed, it reigned true, time ultimately stopping save for the invisible bubble that surrounded the stage and the players as they stomped, strummed, and sweat out their problems.

Gerard’s foot squelched on the tight carpeting, and it didn’t look like spilled beer. It broke his focus, though not enough to lose the lyrics.

If there was one thing they knew how to do, it was call to a crowd, even when they didn’t address them directly. Gerard and Ray did well in bending towards the open floor, hair just barely tickling and dripping sweat onto the faces staring back at them. Frank’s bravery endeared him enough to step off the stages’ height and mosh with anyone willing to meet him in the rough circling. It left Mikey in charge of watching their movements from behind, his glasses facing the stage lights in such a way that the reflection back prevented anyone from seeing his gaze. Staying between Gerard and Ray, nearest to the drums, he had the best layout to observe the bar in its entirety.

Technically, Gerard would have been best for the job, his sunglasses still perched and resisting sliding from the moisture now pouring down his face, but they learned early on Gerard retreated far into his own brain while he sang. Convincing him to come back to reality was a lost cause.

Mikey saw the mix in the crowd, his need to watch heightened whenever Frank left his direct sight. His head bobbed in and out of the lights as he thrashed with about five or six others down below. His shoulders connected with whom Mikey was afraid, and he bit his lip long enough for Ray to see it from the corner of his eye. They couldn’t do anything in that moment.

Frank crawled back up as Ray completed the final outro. It was alright.

One more song.

“ _ Someone send you help, our God knows you need it! _ ”

~

At one point, someone had handed Frank a towel, but he couldn’t remember who it was. Whoops.

He made his way into the bathroom, loosening the tie around his neck with the crusted, stained fabric perched on his head.

Wiping his soaked face allowed for the liner over his eyes to reach a shade and coverage not unlike Gerard’s sunglasses, bringing new meaning to the description “raccoon eyes”.

He bent down to the single sink and, forcing the rusted handle to turn, took swigs of lukewarm water from the tap. It tasted like metal, too, but better that than eau de gasoline from four nights ago. He drank mercilessly.

“Bro, that was a sick fucking set.”

The clap at his back drew his head back up, face to face with a kid covered in booze and tattoos. The cross just above his left eyebrow was particularly interesting.

“Thanks, man.” He took the breath to wipe down his face again, towel wet with water this time.

“You never said what you guys call yourselves.”

Frank shrugged, trying to push down the need to leave and find a cigarette. Damn Gerard for taking the last pack. “We’re in between names. Hey man, you don’t have a cigarette I can steal, do you?”

“Shit, not on me.” He padded at his chest and pockets just to prove it. “I’ve got some weed we can share, yeah? Top-notch shit, I swear, and if you wait Trevor’s coming back with some crystal.”

Frank had taken some water to cool down one more time. “Nah, man, I gotta head out. Finish the blunt for me.”

“No problemo there, man.” The rolled stick was already hanging at the corner of his mouth. He tried not to stare.

After exiting the bathroom, he took a moment to lean against the wall and take a single long sigh. That was fucking close.

His gaze traveled back to the stage, where Ray, Mikey, and the kid who filled for drums were talking. Mikey’s state let him know he’d seen the traffic, concern written into his eyebrows and jaw twitch.

Frank rolled his eyes and flipped him off. His flinch likely translated to a snort.

The consideration to go back outside crossed his mind, but it was dashed when his eyes flicked to Gerard sitting in what was the darkest park of the entire circle bar. It never seemed to be a struggle for him to find it.

His aura as Frank approached screamed “leave me alone” to every passerby, his shades also greatly covered by bits of stringy hair he didn’t bother to shove away from his face as he drank. Thankfully, the clear plastic cup contained water, or Ray would kill him, since it was Gerard’s turn to drive through the night to get to Brooklyn tomorrow.

“Nice animal death-shrieking tonight,” Frank greeted him, nearly reaching for the ashtray out of desperation. “Can I get the cigs back?”

Gerard sniffed and gave a stiff smile, handing the pack over from his pocket. “We’ll stop for more before we leave town.”

“Only if the station is deserted, or Mikey’ll be pissed.”

He waved him off. “Your guitar case is loaded, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re still inside. One’s in the bathroom, by the way. Steal their meth pipe for me.”

Frank could perceive an eye roll, even with the hindrances to his eyes. “You don’t use meth.”

“Maybe I should start.” He loaded a cigarette into his mouth. “Maybe I’ll finally get that suck ass seeing in the dark bullshit.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Until then, you’re stuck with what you have.”

“Great. I’m heading outside, gonna wait there tonight.”

“Fine. Be ready to move.”

“Sir, yes ma’am.”

He took his leave, careful to give the bathroom a wide berth, leaving through the same door. It would have been nice, to at least go and pack up the rest of their shit into their van around the  corner, but he had to wait. Being patient was the worst part.

After reaching into his bag, he loaded his belt and assumed a position that was near identical to where Gerard lingered earlier.

The first cigarette went fast, the only noise he could hear coming from the next block. It sounded like a rager.

Four puffs into the second, the back door burst open, and Frank looked over to see Mikey chasing down a freak with a mohawk.

His steps began to outmatch his assailants, but it only took Frank sticking out a single leg and tripping the runner to hinder him, Frank moving quick enough for the motion to succeed.

The freak face-planted, moving sluggishly to get to his feet again, but not fast enough to prevent Mikey from slamming a crowbar to the back of his skull.

Frank’s back stayed against the brick wall, letting the stick hang out of his mouth as he tossed the stake hanging on his belt to Mikey, the wood clattering to the ground when it slipped from his hand. Clumsy, but the freak wasn’t the poster child for remaining still under his grasp, either.

“You could be helping, y’know,” he confronted Frank.

He only shrugged, looking to the side to see Ray and Gerard tackle another to the ground. Their actions seemed more methodical, even with the overwhelming dark that nearly consumed them all: Ray seemed to hold the shoulders, and Gerard’s own weapon was brought down in a single arc to the chest.

“I figured you had it handled,” he said when he finally responded.

Mikey groaned, and Frank watched with mild interest as the wood was plunged into the freak’s back, sending a light spray of blood and fluids into the air.

He had barely worked himself to his feet when Gerard approached, eyes visible and freed.

“We ready?” he asked.

Mikey nodded. “We need to stop at a laundromat tomorrow, all my clothes are soaked.”

Frank side-eyed in Gerard’s and Ray’s direction. “You heard the man. Time to break out the Q-tips and bleach.”

Mikey narrowed his eyes at him. “You lost your right to touch my clothes ever again after last time.” He began his walk back to Ray and the van, hugging his precious jacket close. A quick word from Ray in his direction made him turn, and together they each took a leg and began dragging the corpse through the alley to the parking lot.

Frank handed the stick to Gerard, and he seemed pleased, sucking it down with finesse.

“We have to do recon for New York,” Gerard said.

Frank sighed. “I hate those, we get no money. Might as well just go to Annapolis and actually get fucking paid.”

“I wish we could, too, but it’s the right thing to do.”

“Who knew the right thing was killing shit for a living.”

~

Ray and Frank were the ones that won the rock paper scissors game, trudging back to the van at the edge of the clearing while the brothers were stuck filling the makeshift holes in the ground.

The torch in Frank’s hand was beginning to flicker, and the thought of spending more money on double A batteries was abhorrent, switching the device off at the thought and relying on Ray’s working model and using slow steps to avoid tripping on debris.

“You know you collided with one of them in the pit tonight,” Ray spoke through the crackling footsteps, his words unabashed and loud in the calm.

“Did I?” Frank’s only memory of going below the stage were sweat-hit-pain-hit-fucking -beer-sweat-upstairs again. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Holds your theory true,” he continued, fingers reaching out to open the van’s door. “Direct contact against your skin didn’t make them run.”

“What, from my tattoo? I only got it ‘cause it made Mikey shut up about the idea.” As if to prove his point, he rubbed his fingers against the sensitive, raised skin just below the crook of his elbow.

“It’s still infused with holy water. Maybe direct  _ direct _ contact would do the trick.”

“You’re welcome to try it with your own tattoo, Toro. I’m not looking to stick my arm out and ask any freaks, ‘Hey, wanna mosh and see if your skin burns off?’”

“Maybe in a pinch, it’ll help.”

His mouth twisted at the words. If Frank noticed, he didn’t say anything.

They went and rested in the two separate rows of the van, Frank climbing into far back to lay down, keeping his nose away from the fabric seats. Ray didn’t relax immediately, taking out his stash of wet wipes and giving himself the best dry shower as practiced, starting with the dirt under his fingernails and eventually working his way to his dirt- and blood-spattered arms and armpits.

At one point, all he saw was Frank’s hand sticking out in his direction. Without a word, he handed him a fresh lemon-scented wipe, Frank working away at his skin.

“This New York outing is a bad idea,” Frank mumbled.

Ray wondered if he was meant to hear or not, but if it was rhetorical, Frank wouldn’t have said anything. “Why, did Mikey say something?”

“We’re not getting paid for the freaks, and less of a dumping ground. It automatically makes it a bad fucking idea.”

“Maybe someone’ll have something for us when we get there, and we deal with shitty dumping grounds all the time. It’ll be okay.”

“We shouldn’t go unless we have a direct job. It’s gonna be a goddamn waste of time.”

“Try convincing the brother buddies of that.”

Frank scoffed, and Ray knew what that meant. Convincing them of anything was near-impossible.

In truth, Ray wasn’t a huge fan of New York City anymore. It meant they would end up in Manhattan for the hell of it, and that amount of people in one place never went well for his anxiety. It was so easy to get lost in the city and the vibe that echoed through the streets, but getting lost was something he was working to avoid. Sticking to Brooklyn remained his preference, but if anyone made their way into Manhattan, he knew he would follow.

Nevertheless, he knew Frank wouldn’t be the one to initiate a trip inward. If Ray was looking to keep away from the city, Frank didn’t want to touch it with a ten-mile stick.

“I just want to play the show in Brooklyn,” Ray informed him, which was entirely true. “Stick with me, we’ll keep from crossing the bridge as a team.”

A chuckle from the back seat came out as a low huff. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Whatever you say.” The smoke would at least keep Frank from smelling everything else in the back seat. He wanted to shampoo the seats so badly, rub at them until his fingers were raw.

~

“New York seems like a bad idea.”

Mikey looked up from his own pile of dirt, taking the single opportunity to rest and wipe away the salt on his upper lip. “What?”

“I said New York is bad news,” Gerard repeated, shoveling in more dirt without pause, despite the rasp at the back of his throat, scratching his esophagus. “We’re not getting paid, the gig is shit, and the last thing I want to do is go back there, much less make Frank go, too.”

“But that’s why we should, Gerard.” He leaned against the shovel stuck in the ground. “Kids are dying over there, isn’t it the right thing to try to help?”

“We’re going to end up getting ourselves killed, especially going in blind.”

“I’m not the one wearing shades at night,” Mikey quipped, then sighed. “If we don’t help, no one will.”

“We can’t save everyone,” he said, slight regret coming from his choice of words, but none for stating them.

“I know.” Instead of explaining, he went back to his task, much more interested in the grave in front of them for a few heartbeats.

The shoveling of the wet dirt and soil was all that transpired between the two. The idea of skipping New York lasted longer than an errant thought in his mind, and bringing it up to Mikey seemed like a good idea. It just wasn’t going to change their plans.

“We can’t save everyone, but we can save them.”

Gerard looked over to see that Mikey hadn’t paused to speak his words. Unfortunately, through the dark and lack of extra shade, Gerard couldn’t tell if he grew flushed.

~

“Why do you smell like floor cleaner?”

Ray’s expression was sheepish. “I didn’t think we would have time to shower in the bathroom sink. Turns out I was right.”

Gerard adjusted the glasses on his face as Ray held the door of the gas station open for him. “So you dumped floor cleaner onto yourself?”

“They’re wet wipes, genius,” he jeered. “What do you want to eat?”

“Some slim jims, for sure, and some beers if we can afford them.”

Ray nodded as he began his shopping endeavours, which included as many snacks as they could buy off the given cash they had—after the necessary purchases of gasoline (Gerard was in charge of that), garbage bags, zip ties, wet wipes, paper towels, and a case of water. This was the cheapest they were going to get before passing into New York state lines.

Coming out with the groceries towards Gerard filling the van was the most victorious he’d felt in a long time.

“Your phone was buzzing,” Gerard informed him, before he had a chance to put anything down.

“Was probably my brother,” he said, opening the back trunk as best he could with the separate attachment latched and in the way, loading groceries that didn’t belong up front. He slammed the doors shut again and met Gerard back at the pump, trying not to crinkle his nose at the smell. “His college semester just ended. I wanted him to tell me how it went.”

Gerard nodded. “Do you regret not going to college?”

Getting to the heart of the problem; a rare and rather disbelieving aspect of Gerard. “I… no, I don’t. I’m doing what I’m good at here.”

“I don’t know, man, I feel like you could be shredding it at Juilliard.”

“What, and leave you idiots hanging? Nah, this is the choice I made.”

Ray reached into the front seat and grabbed his phone, the missed call phone number familiar enough for his statement to be correct. His brother was the only one that called him regularly, especially when classes were weighing on him, and obviously there was only so much Ray could get in between his rants about his shitty math professor. The end of the year hopefully meant getting a word in, but Ray wouldn’t hold his breath.

It was okay. It was normal.

“You gonna call him back?” Gerard asked.

He stared at the screen, frowning. “Not until tomorrow morning.” He turned the screen off. “Would you go back to college if you could?”

Gerard only shrugged, unwrapping the new pack of cigarettes with deft fingers. “Maybe community college. I was getting tired of people telling me how to draw, so might as well do it on my own time, after hours.”

The lighter clicked on after a few tries, and the pump snapped with the full tank.

A flash at the corner of Ray’s vision made him turn, seeing Mikey sit up with a frantic expression, searching out Gerard’s and Ray’s faces with wide eyes.

Ray raised a single hand in a wave, and he visibly relaxed, leaning back into the seat and out of their view.

Ray knew Gerard had seen. “Poor kid.”

Geard replaced the pump before taking the stick to his lips. “With nightmares jumping out from the dark, I’m not surprised.”

Ray nodded, climbing into the front seat and turning the music down as low as he could to not wake the others, but loud enough to not be alone with his own thoughts.

~

The ride into Brooklyn at four in the morning was uneventful, if not for the nightmares everyone suffered in their respective seats. 

Sleepless nights were normal, and they would have some time to relax later. If Gerard wanted Ray to take over, he’d wake him, but driving a van during the night was just as risky as him lighting a cigarette in a gas station parking lot: doable and necessary, but probably a bad idea in the long run.

Where his anxiety was concerned, he told himself that no more cigarettes were allowed until they saw city skylines, which would keep his eyes open until dawn came into view. At least that would keep him awake until they arrived.

The van hit a large bump, and the entire car rustled, but no one woke from the jump.

Ray was by far the heaviest sleeper, of which Gerard was jealous. Any more than two solid hours in the van was an outright success, and motels were a grace from god and the sandman himself. As Ray lightly snored beside him, Gerard tried not to be envious of the quiet that the others got to embrace. Mikey needed it from the drive yesterday, and it  _ was  _ Gerard’s turn, but turning his brain into auto-subconscious mode felt ideal and pleasant.

Of course he would swallow those words the moment he hit REM, but that was the lesser of two evils where obtaining a nights sleep was concerned. Especially after three days lacking it.

Mikey adjusted in the seat rows behind him, his hand flying out and hitting the center console of the van in his sleep. It sounded rough, the collision, but the pile of newspapers and printed articles, now creating an avalanche over the side, seemed to cushion the blow enough that the motion didn’t rouse the younger Way.

The headlines and black-and-white print were the best and most recent everyone could get their hands on, via mailing systems and the Internet, the pages printed courtesy of Frank’s mother. New York was being hit with all kinds of bad news, death and body disposal hiding between the pages, the city initiating a manhunt across the metropolitan cities surrounding Manhattan. Most of the words contained only noise, new tragedy that still paled in comparison to September 11th; they implored that the city has had enough, but the outlines of what they searched for were there: exsanguination, flocking to churches and temples for protection, nightly curfews that no one wanted to follow.

In terms of nightmares hitting the city, it was only a needle in a haystack of mayhem, but having it go unchecked by at least noted hunters was a bad idea.

To be quite honest, it was a bad idea either way: the pay for the show in Brooklyn was next to nothing for a New York show—no doubt sleep was going to be minimal for the vast majority of the car; most of all, going back to such a haunted place for everyone… it was borderline cruel.

But they were going, and no one had screamed for Gerard to stop the car yet. He was hoping someone would come to their senses, but it was a job, and one that was making the small papers at that.

There was a loud thump in the back of the car, and in the rearview mirror, Frank was nowhere to be seen. While he was a decent sleeper, it was as though his being could sense the state line crossing into New York.

Christ, nicotine withdrawal was a bitch.

There was a temptation to call his grandmother, but waking up the entire car for only his benefit did not outweigh his vast loneliness at that moment. No, all he could manage was the silence that made the thought,  _ this is a shitty idea _ , become more amplified in volume with each passing second that the van did not crash off the road and into a ditch.

He wanted his pencils, or a piece of cloth, or a razor.

God, he needed a cigarette.

~

“Gerard, can I talk to you?”

He looked up from his scattered sketches on the desk, the lamplight very much not enough to highlight the shadow work he wanted to get perfect. It was his own fault for not turning on the room lights to their full use, but Gerard insisted it was worth it: the bright lights were too strong and glaring against the lead pencils, impossible to see properly.

Gerard’s eyes were his own. It wasn’t like Mikey could argue. He was the art genius.

“Sure, Mikes.” He rubbed at his eyes with drowsiness, but gave Mikey his undivided attention by spinning away from his desk.

Mikey had taken to sitting on the edge of his bed, wringing his hands. He hadn’t seen Gerard leave his room for the past week, working on his submission drawings for college constantly, and their mom had convinced Mikey to leave him alone despite… everything.

His first opportunity had arisen that night, the older sibling making it down to dinner for the first time since he had begun the project. He’d noticed Mikey refraining from speaking and commenting on the progress of the drawings he brought to the table for last minute opinions; he only offered a quick nod, then disappeared into his head again.

He’d noticed, but kept it to himself.

It took a few minutes of pacing through the hallway upstairs while Iron Maiden leaked through the walls and floor, before working up the proper courage.

“Hey, Mikey, I’m sorry I haven’t been around these past few days,” he started instead, trying to tackle through his own guilt first. “This has just been taking up so much of my time, and it’s my own damn fault for waiting to the last minute -”

“It’s fine.” He’d been talking to his mother a lot, but there was something about Gerard not being there, not knowing, or having the time to just give a side hug to Mikey. Tears stung at the edges of his eyes, quick motions wiping them away before they could fall. “It’s not about that, I…” He couldn’t dry his eyes fast enough.

“Mikey, what’s wrong?” He immediately grew alarmed, pushing the desk chair to face him at a closer distance, squeezing his bony knee and watching hard tears fall. “Tell me.”

Mikey’s lips pursed hard enough for them to lose color. It hadn’t been his best friend, but he was close. He was supposed to come over to the house later, watch a shitty TV show while Gerard worked in the other room...

“You remember Josh? From my birthday?”

“Course I do.” His face betrayed nothing, save for the slightest crook of confusion in his eyebrows.

“He… he’s dead. He died.”

Gerard was quiet for a moment, his mouth barely open in a small O before getting up and joining Mikey on the bed. “Oh, oh Mikey.” He grabbed him in a hug, all elbows and sinking bodies as the mattress squealed against their weight. “Why didn’t you  _ say  _ something? This… he—I had no idea…”

“Mom didn’t want you to worry, and she was right. It’s just, it’s sucked, not being able to say anything, that’s all.” His own tears flowed harder at that statement than admitting one of his good friends was dead. How fucked.

Now, Gerard had wandered into unfamiliar territory: how to comfort someone about the notion of death. He had no idea. “Do you… do you want to talk about it? I knew you two were close…”

“Not much to tell, just that… he should be alive, he died because of me.”

From unfamiliar to extreme and dangerous. “I can tell you already that’s not true. Mikey, just because someone close died -”

“He was supposed to come  _ here _ .” While Gerard held Mikey close, his frame shuddered into a hunched individual, hands balled into fists as he clutched his jeans. “We were at a party, and it… everyone was drinking,  _ I _ was drinking, but I wanted to leave, the music was so shitty. He stayed, cause he wanted to play video games, and I told him to come over later, and he said fine. And I left. He… he jumped off the roof, landed wrong.” It had made the news; Gerard hadn’t turned the TV on. “Gerard, if I stayed, even if I made him come with me… I could have done it, I didn’t try, and he, he’s just gone now, he’s gone.”

“Mikey.” Mikey’s body trembled, and it took conscious thought to keep his own frame steady. “This isn’t your fault, this isn’t even in the same  _ universe _ of being your fault. Do you understand me?”

“Gerard, if I had been there -”

“But you weren't. You couldn’t have known, you’re not a fortune teller, you’re not Destiny.” Mikey’s smile was forced and weak. “It was an accident, Mikey. If we could all try and erase our guilt by going back to the past because of regret, we’d never learn from stupid mistakes. This isn’t a stupid mistake,” he added, flustered, “because it wasn’t a mistake for you to make. It’s just… shitty, that’s all.”

“It is shitty,” Mikey agreed, his eyes growing heavy. “Everyone at school, they keep asking about the last time I saw him, like they knew I was there, that  _ I _ was supposed to take care of him.”

Gerard shook his head. “They’re idiots, Mikey, and worst case is they’re looking for someone to blame, which isn’t you. There wasn’t anything you could have done.” Gerard tried to search his memories for something, anything he could use. “You’re just like Batman, Mikey: survivor’s guilt weighs heavy.”

His smile came a little easier, but Gerard could tell his thoughts were crashing against one another in legions, despite the comforting words he offered.

“Did they have a funeral already?” he asked.

Mikey shook his head. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Are you gonna go?”

“Yeah. Mom said she’d take an hour off work, go with me. She said I could miss school tomorrow.”

Gerard nodded, going down a checklist in his head, facing his dimly lit desk. “I’m going too. Until then -” Gerard stood up, pushing some papers aside, causing two pens to clatter to the floor, “- give me an hour, then meet me in the hall. We’re pulling an all-nighter movie marathon until we have to leave.”

“Gerard, you don’t -”

“Don’t you argue with me, Mikes.” His exaggerated teacher chastising, as well as bonus points for the crooked pointed finger, was enough to earn a small chuckle. “Now you go to your room, and don’t come out until you have at least ten hours of material for us. I’ll have to get your thumbs-up for my last copy here, then we shall begin.”

~

The first one awake that morning was Toro, mumbling a hello before grabbing his notebook, stuffed full of scattered pieces of paper. Gerard was never too sure, and he didn’t ask, but the notebook  _ seemed _ to provide as a dream journal, and thoughts journal,  _ and _ music journal. From the peeping at the corner of his eye, it functioned for music at the moment, Ray writing down a random span of small dots and numbers across the span of a page. 

Gerard didn’t interrupt until his thoughts were down completely.

“Anything good?”

Ray shrugged. “Just an idea.” Placing the plastic-backed book back in his bag signified he didn’t want to explain further. Gerard tried not to be disappointed. “Anything exciting happen?”

“If only,” Gerard scoffed. “We’re getting close to the coast, I’ll need your help navigating until we get to the library.”

“Yeah, sure.”

It didn’t take long for the van to intersect with commuters, and with the current state of their gas tank, they began to play stop-and-go at the risk of breaking down in the middle of everyone entering the city at five in the morning. The streets were only going to get worse, too, and Gerard hadn’t even managed a morning coffee.

The printed directions and a map were on Ray’s lap, but his fingers were busy leafing through the newspaper clippings and editorials, eyes still glazed from sleep. 

“Have you looked through these yet?” he asked after a few moments silence, holding one of the more thickly-worded pages and frowning, cursing himself within his own skull.

“Not really, why?”

“I told Frank we could stay in Brooklyn, avoid Manhattan. He’s gonna think I’m changing my mind.”

Gerard pounded on the brakes with the red light in front of him. Even their old-as-sin van was protesting against the trip. “Are you?”

“There’s freaks in Brooklyn,” Ray assured him, “but I think there’s bodies around Manhattan, too. I think we’ll have to go no matter what.” He put the pages down to rub at his eyes. “God, I should have read these.”

“Frank won’t be mad at you,” Gerard told him flatly. “And besides, we’ll only go in if we don’t find anything in the Brooklyn scene. We can’t stick around, anyways.”

Ray’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and on seeing the familiar number across the screen, he promptly put it away.

“Mom thinks I’m hiding JJ’s things from her,” Ray said when Gerard saw the motion. “Apparently Dad hasn’t told her I had to donate or sell all of his junk.”

“You’d think he’d have said something.”

“You’d think,” he confirmed, looking up at the roads in front of them, then down at his map. “You’ll want to turn off in five miles.”

“Okay.”

~

“Man, what a shithole.”

“Oh please, it’s not that bad.”

Frank looked the library up and down, with it’s not-so-carefully boarded up windows hiding shattered glass, as well as the graffiti that was peeking out under watered-down white paint. “No, you’re right, compared to Jersey this place is classy as fuck.”

“See? Positives. They’d do you well.”

Mikey earned a flick to the head for that one as everyone piled out of the van, promptly stretching and letting out yawns while Ray hunted down the parking toll attendant for change.

“I’m always positive,” Frank insisted as Mikey stretched his arms out in front of him. “I’m the fucking poster child of optimism. Your ass is the one that describes the ‘sad imperfections of human observable’ whatever in Donnie Darko.”

Mikey rolled his eyes. “You can’t bring up that movie every time you want to be right. Predicting the end doesn’t make you an expert on humanity.”

“Neither does being a sales associate at Barnes and Noble, jackass.”

Mikey looked to Gerard for some form of brotherly backup as he lit a cigarette, taking a single puff before responding.

“I think humanity is fucked either way, so why try to label it?”

Mikey gave him a hard look, while Frank stole the stick for himself before replacing it in Gerard’s hand after a deep inhale. “Alright, Gerard wins for melodrama.”

Gerard rolled his eyes as Ray returned with a small handful of bills in hand.

“So here’s today's coffee and cigarette fund. Go crazy.”

“Oh, thank God,” Mikey said, taking the bills for himself and pocketing them. “Who’s going with me?”

“I’m going to stick around here, make some phone calls,” Ray said, phone already in hand.

“I’ll go with you,” Frank offered, their tiff unable to stop the desire to spend money on cigarettes. “That way Gerard can sleep in the encyclopedia section for a while.”

Gerard snorted before replacing his sunglasses. His chances of sleep at the moment were slim; his hands were itching to get ahold of one of their mechanical pencils and sketch out some of the scenery they had passed, the shadows getting to him.

The coffee crew left the parking lot, and Ray wasted no time in bringing the phone to his ear, face full of distress. Gerard chain smoked during those few minutes in the damp lot while Ray battled his family on limited minutes, calm despite what was being battled over, his anxiety coming to light only with the hand gestures that grew more and more frantic as time went by.

Gerard knew how important the concept of family was, but his family supported him and his endeavors, almost to a fault. It wasn’t the same.

A few cars had arrived and opened the library doors by the time Ray’s first conversation ended, calling what was assumed to be his brother right after. His talking this time was less insistent, but Ray’s shoulders hunched in an invisible weight.

He just needed more sleep.

~

“Two-fifty a cup, what a steal.” Acid dripped in the words.

Mikey frowned at the prices, wishing they could consistently afford the high class coffee this place offered. His mom always had it in stock, and the call to scald his tongue with something worthwhile raised a tug in his stomach to return home and do… not this.

But the headache and fuzz behind his eyes also led him to know that he did not care about the different forms of caffeine.

Beside him, Frank eyed one of the closer tables and the stack of discarded newspapers on the coffee-stained surface. Without missing a beat, and being the most capable of functioning without black bitters in the group, he sat down at the vacant table, pushing his way through the stacks and working to find the crime section.

There was nothing at the front page, which wasn’t terribly surprising, considering how inconsistent the murders really were. They were sparse, and in such a massive span across the metro region that keeping up and finding the links they searched for was near impossible. These were clean, to-the-T slayings that were being hid well. Frank had the theory that bullets were being stuck into bodies to fool everyone. It was twisted enough that it was becoming impressive—

“Frank?”

He glanced up from the print, expecting Mikey, and instead meeting the eyes of a man that looked incredibly familiar, but Frank couldn’t place him.

Despite the overcast that had come from the coast, the guy was out in the day, and the danger level decreased to a twenty percent or so.

He raised an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

“It’s Chris. You and Bob worked a job for me a while ago.”

Frank blinked with a neutral face, but his insides froze to negative degrees.

“Man, you look the exact same, cut and all. Got another job here, looks like. Is Bob here?”

He had paused the moment for one second past awkward, but having Frank open his mouth before creating a tangible thought would have caused him to bite off his tongue.

“He’s not. Sitting this round out.”  _ So you’ve succumbed to lying now, huh?  _ “We’re here in Brooklyn until tomorrow.”

“I wondered if anyone was going to get hired out, I’ve seen the news.” Chris waved to the pile of papers in front of him. “Shit’s brewing all around here and no one’s really noticed yet. You’re gonna save all our asses  _ again _ , and you even left before getting paid last time. I hope that’s not why you’re here.”

_ For the love of God, don’t sit down.  _ “Nah, that ship has sailed. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I help you?”

Mikey has finally walked over, order receipt in hand, a critical look on his face that knew the distress Frank was in, even when no one else could sense it.

“Oh, hi, I assume Frank’s with you,” he said easily, the newfound tension slipping over his head.

“Chris was the owner from our last trip here,” Frank explained, sounding sullen, but thankfully not acidic.

“Oh shit,” Mikey said, his train of thought resulting in a much shorter waiting period. “You… don’t have any leads for us, do you?”

“Nah, man, they’ve been staying out of my area. I’m sure someone I know has something, but I couldn’t tell ya. I can ask around if that would help you guys bust some ass.” He raised his watch to look at the time. “Look, I gotta get going, two jobs and all.” From his pocket, he pulled out a single pen and handed it to Frank. “Write down your number for me, I’ll call if I have anything.”

Frank only nodded, putting down the digits. In any other scenario, having someone this helpful would have been a dream; it was turning into déjà vu instead.

“Awesome, see you later or not.”

Mikey sat down in the opposite chair, feeling the jagged line of newspaper that got ripped off with the number. “Are you okay?”

Frank looked up at Mikey, face wiped. “Yeah, course I am.”

_ Lying to friends now. Good lord, do  _ you  _ even know how you’re feeling, Frankie? Looks like unrequited guilt twists even the dumbest of minds. _

Mikey shrugged, running over the space that Chris had occupied, suppressing a shudder. “Well, I have to ask, you know, because of him… and you… and all this New York crap, I just, I don’t know...”

He rolled his eyes. “If I can’t take looking at some ghost of a shitty bar manager, then hunting would be completely out of my depth.”

“I know, but… you would tell me, or someone, if you needed a break from this, right? Cause we don’t, you know, wanna push you, and it’s New  _ York _ -”

“Alright Mikey, I’m gonna have you take a deep breath so you don’t keel over.” Frank waved him off, looking at the counter and spotting a to-go holder with four large cups. He stood up, grabbing all the papers to go with them. “I’m fine, don’t go worrying your pretty little head. You  _ should  _ be worrying about Gerard and the fact that he is most definitely  _ not _ sleeping right now.”

Mikey groaned. “Of course he isn’t.”

_ I hope you’re prepared for the amount of lying that’s being done to your best friends, or you’re going to end up getting them killed, too. Good luck with that. _

~

“Gerard, c’mon, you have to at least help me.”

“I already read over the stories. There’s nothing good.”

“Anything is better than you reading Frankenstein for the fifteenth time. At least be helpful and read Dracula or something.”

“Why would I read realistic fiction when I have to face the real thing already? No thanks. This is the only place I can actually read and not be interrupted.”

In a slow, grand movement, Ray reached over the small table and grabbed the paperback from Gerard’s hands, giving him an expectant look.

He scrunched his lips, but ultimately he gave in, taking one of the papers for himself, describing the murder— _ the  _ first murder—of a twenty year old in Prospect Park. “You think this place will already have the headlines from these past two weeks?”

“I think so,” Ray said, “but chances are good we have the vast majority here.”

“I mean like, getting the headlines just from the library, and not having to haul this crap around with us. If some cop tried pulling us over and saw this, I’m pretty sure we’d be arrested.”

Ray gave a small smile. “That’s a good point. Plus Bob gets guilt trippy about paying back Frank’s mom.”

The moment spanned across all space and time, impalpable nerves shooting through all of Ray’s body, his limbs stopping short and freezing in the air between them with the paper. Gerard was the same way, numb and utterly still, save for the clench in his jaw he hadn’t realized he’d done. Both of their chests shared the same ache.

“I… I mean, that -”

“Yeah, I know.” Gerard shook his head. “We are so screwed.”

Ray nodded, though he wasn’t sure to what Gerard was implying. An all-encompassing understanding for every facet of their trip here fit in one way or another.

Gerard grabbed a pen, lightly drawing pieces of landscape, and sometimes switching to underline a specific location the story clarified.

It remained quiet and strained in the small nook until the doors on the other side of the room opened, and even with the vast expanse of the space and shelves in between, they both couldn’t help but hear a louder-than-inside-voice exclaim “Oh shit, look!” before light footsteps took them the long way around. Frank peeked around one of the cooking section shelves to find them at last.

“Guys, they have a record player in the back room, we could absolutely play Slayer backwards and curse the entire fucking city!”

“Frank, shut up, we’re in a library,” Ray chastised him.

Frank shot him an annoyed look, but his voice returned to casual level. “A library that zero other people are using. Let me live my dreams, Toro.”

“Live out your dreams when you’re not in a public place,” Mikey said, taking a seat on the floor against a shelf and sipping his coffee with slitted eyes. “I don’t want to get kicked out of the one place where we can stay for free.”

“What about the park?” Gerard queried. Frank looked smug from the input.

“Try yelling like a maniac in a public park with kids, you’ll get arrested faster than this place.”

“Speaking of the park,” Ray interrupted, “I think we should go over there.”

The three looked over to face him, and he tossed the paper that he marked, the story over three weeks old.

Frank glanced at it from where he stood, coffee held behind him in a precarious position, as if he were about to chuck it overhand against the wall. The date didn’t pass him.

“It’s not like anything will still be there,” he said.

Gerard glanced at the headline, then pulled out the stack he’d been skimming, the park only mentioned once. He tossed that paper on top of Ray’s, saying nothing.

“That… that’s more recent,” Frank conceded. Mikey raised his arm to grab at nothing multiple times, and Frank automatically handed him the older clipping. “You think it’s worth it, even with the cleanup? Seems crowded as hell to try and scavenge.”

“It’s still a crime scene,” Ray pointed out.

“Is that other story about the same murder?” Mikey asked over his glasses, the frames having slid to the tip of his nose.

“Yeah.”

“And there’s no other mentioned in any of the others?”

For that, no one had an answer.

“There’s nowhere mentioned in any of these, they just say ‘Brooklyn’ or ‘Manhattan’,” Gerard said.

Frank’s face was nonchalant and unsurprised. “Ladies and gents, we have a dumping ground.”

“I don’t get why they wouldn’t mention this in the other stories,” Ray admitted, eyes scanning over the other stories for the magic words regarding locations.

“You have too much faith in humanity, Ray,” Frank told him. “It’s cause no one wants a panic.”

“Especially about fairy tale villains,” Mikey added.

“Fairy tale villain serial killers. D’you think it’s considered serial killing if it’s what the freaks need to live? No sexual high or fucking of corpses, just blood.”

The question seemed to intrigue Gerard, his lips pursing in thought, while Ray shook his head. “You can ponder that one on your own, but I do think we should go.”

“We got the papers from the coffee shop this morning.” Mikey motioned for the newspapers. “I think going through those first would be good. You know, before going anywhere.”

No one complained, and the idea of resting somewhere that wasn’t a moving vehicle was tempting enough.

“And you,” Mikey continued, pointing at Gerard, “you need to sleep.”

“Thanks for commanding me after bringing caffeine,” Gerard muttered. His eyes were tight, but not sleep-deprived tight; he’d gotten used to the feeling a while ago.

“If you don’t I’m taking the cup,” he threatened.

“I volunteer to be Mikey’s hitman,” Frank said immediately, body posing for a tackle.

“Fine, I’ll go, but no one touches it. I’m going to the car.”

This seemed to satisfy the younger brother enough. “Ray, can you hand me today’s?”

~

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath, looking behind him before going towards the van.

His sudden arrival and rather loud opening of the door made Gerard start, the pencil jumping out of his hand and onto the seat.

“Man, Mikey is gonna kick your ass,” Frank said, with the cadence of an eight year old tattling on their older sibling to the parent.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell them. I don’t feel like sleeping right now, that’s it.”

“Hell no, I am  _ not _ gonna be the one to tell him, that’s all you, but you’re gonna pass out after the show tonight and we’re gonna be working no matter what.”

“That’s fine.” Gerard shook his head, but Frank wasn’t listening, his eyes fastened on the drawing in his lap with a raised eyebrow.

Gerard had moved away from the cartoon-esque his characters usually had, not a face to be seen, and the only indication of a human on the paper was the single limb that remained as one of the “focal points”, as he would say. He had itched for as much realism as possible, the trees and hills outlined with the dark of a single shade of gray, darkening towards the center to a very distinct hole in the ground. There was nothing campy, however, about the arm reaching out and flattening the tufts of grass around the rectangle, and with the necessity of black and white? It could have been mistaken for a movie poster advertising Night of the Living Dead.

Both of their eyes were on the page long enough that Gerard’s move to close the notebook seemed petty, as well as beyond late.

“You’re not gonna tell Mikey, are you?” Gerard asked, more firmness in his voice.

He had looked up quickly enough that he saw Frank’s jaw unclench. A near invisible shudder ran through him, but the bounce back was flawless.

“Nah, that’s your burden to bear. Just don’t pass out if we actually end up, y’know,  _ hunting _ .”

“I won’t.” He had fished the pencil out from the seat, ignoring the scrape of the hardened carpet on his fingers. “Was there a reason you were coming to get me?”

“Oh, yeah. Ray seems hellbent on this park venture, I figured you and Mikey would stay here and watch the van, read all the shit, while we go over.”

Gerard nodded, moving his way out of the vehicle again. “What time do we need to be at the venue?”

Frank shrugged. “Probably not too early if we’re not first in the lineup. Have Mikey call and sweet talk the manager for a later start.”

“I’ll remind him.”

The two walked back inside, and something was eating at Gerard’s insides, enough for him to break the silence first, before Frank had a chance.

“Are you okay?”

Frank scoffed at the sky. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Maybe because we’re worried about you, asshole.”

He forced a smirk. “I can sense the worry in your voice. Do I  _ seem  _ un-okay to you?” He spread his arms out for Gerard to have a full view.

Gerard didn’t look his way. “I wouldn’t know, you don’t tell us things like that.”

“Oh, don’t go playing that card, Gee, or I’ll be the one to bring up that drawing from the car.” When he didn’t say anything, Frank knew he’d gotten his point across. “I’m fine. I’m tired and bitchy and wanna go home  _ tomorrow, _ but I’m fine. Now should I ask you?”

“Ask me what?”

“If you’re okay. A six hour drive through the night with no sleep, ending with a drawing for the next storyboard of Dawn of the Dead. I’m pretty sure any therapist alive would scream ‘headcase’ to some degree.”

“Not a very scientific term,” Gerard remarked, then sighed. “If I said I wasn’t okay, would that change anything?”

Frank thought about it, and upon reaching the double doors, he paused. “Depends on how much you’re wanting to fix it.” He gave Gerard a pointed look. “We all know something’s fucking with you, admitting it is the first step.  _ Then  _ we get home, after making sure you’re not the one stabbing the bitches.”

“I’m not admitting anything, I just… we can’t go home, can we?”

_ You said it yourself, admitting it is the first step, yours would just mean you fucked up royally. _ “I don’t think so, no. We’ve come this far, right? It’d be shitty to give up now. Do you think it’s necessary?”

“No,” he admitted, sounding more assured in his answer.

_ You both are fuck ups, aren’t ya?  _ “Then let’s battle it out. Think happy thoughts until we get home, for the both of us, Gerard.”

“I’ll try.”

~

“God, my feet hurt. These shoes are not doing me any favors.”

“Goddamn, Toro, I thought you said you would buy new ones for this leg.” Frank thumped to the ground and laid himself in the grass, giant sunglasses not unlike Gerard’s hiding whether he intended to take a nap or remain awake.

“It slipped my mind,” Ray said, taking a seat beside the other guitarist, not intending to remain stationary for long, no matter how tempting it sounded.

“It’s probably a sign, you’ve clearly doomed us,” Frank said as a matter of fact.

“I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of stuff.”

It was quiet for a spell, Frank’s lips pursed in obvious thought. His head nodded to the side, like he was agreeing with himself. “I believe in covering all my bases. If nothing bad happens, then who cares. If something does happen, then I have my excuse, both spiritually and practically.”

“Sounds a lot like self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Frank’s face was skeptical, eyes tracing the gray cloud cover above them. “If us hunting freaks somehow  _ didn’t  _ result in bad results and shit lives, then yes, I’m hoping for self-fulfilling prophecy. You can argue this all you want, Ray, but you’re still the one that needs to buy shoes.”

He scoffed. “Fair enough.”

The crime scene they had searched for was no longer closed off to the public, which meant there was nothing to collect for solely the sake of observation. It was a disappointment, but the duo got a better feel for the area: dense trees and bush, plenty of cover, fluctuations of people coming and out, and a lack of effort in order to hide in plain sight.

If they wanted confirmation, this was it, but that didn’t make their job any easier from this point.

So, for now, it was about relaxing. That’s what they were supposed to do before a show and a full night run anyways.

They had parked themselves near a main path in the center of the park, one with not only the heaviest shade and isolation, but near the largest tunnel where they could hear anyone coming from footsteps, general conversation, or all of the above. Unconscious habits like those were kept them alive in the long run, but neither of them had qualms with the selection; win-win.

Frank lounged on the ground, Ray sitting up and people watching, while itching for his guitar. He’d brought his own notebook along, but that was nowhere the same thing. As a two minute placeholder, he texted Mikey about what they had found, or lack thereof. It would make him feel better.

_ Shit. Not surprising. There’s not much in the papers for location, I think we’ll just have to wait for nighttime to try and do anything. We could try and play a _

_ -nother set somewhere else tonight, but that would mean cutting it super close or staying another day if there’s more than one, which is absolutely a bad idea, r _

_ -ight? _

_ Yeah, probably. You don’t want to stay, do you? _

_ Not if we can go asap. I can do whatever, I just worry about Gerard’s head and Frank’s unpredictability. _

_ Yeah, this was a bad trip for the moody twins. _

_ XD sooner rather than later then. _

“Mikey seems a lot better these days,” Ray said, interrupting the silence while gazing at his phone. 

When Frank didn’t respond immediately, Ray thought he might be asleep. Fifty yard away, an older couple with running attire and squeaking voices continued to trot on the path after exiting the tunnel.

“What makes you say that?”

For a moment, Ray regretted bringing up the subject. Not because he was exaggerating, but more so that it was via comparison to which he could make the connection. Mikey was doing pretty well, but Gerard was lost in his own head too much and too often, and they had dragged Frank back here—of course he wasn’t fine.

“It just seems like he’s worrying less and less about us. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have someone watching out, but there’s a limit.”

“Yeah, poor bastard hates sleeping on his own, and the only time that’s relieved is when we’re fighting the damned in a shitty version of the Mystery Machine.”

“I didn’t know that,” Ray admitted.

Frank nodded, the movement awkward with his hands behind his head. “Why do you think he takes home every stray partier he sees? It’s not to  _ sleep  _ sleep with them, I can tell you that.”

Maybe he wasn’t better off than the rest of them. “Well, would  _ you  _ want to sleep alone knowing monsters are real?”

“I sleep like a baby when I’m not with some lonely, desperate—hold that thought.”

Frank had reached into his pocket to glance at his phone, lips pursing before he answered. The number was unfamiliar, but it always amounted to a good day when he could pretend to be someone else to a telemarketer.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, is this Frank?”

His tongue curled in his mouth. “Yeah, is this Chris?”

Ray’s eyes were on the ground to listen, but his eyebrows bent in obvious confusion.

“Yeah, hey man! So I asked around about the freaks on my smoke break, figured you’d want something before the sun goes down. Bad news is they have no ideas on anyone specific, but good news is that the name Bob Bryar opens a lot of doors. He ever mention a kid named Hambone?”

He hadn’t realized his fingers were gripping the ground until straightening them again, white nails caked with a thin layer of mud. “Not that I know of, no.”

“He does some on and off work with hunters that live up North a ways. As far as I can tell, they’ve gone dormant, but he’s still here doing temp work around the city. Fucker’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, so if you wanted backup or any hope of research, he’s your guy.”

_ Great, another harmless passerby whose life you get to ruin. _ “And he’s been working on this murder string?”

“Not that I know of, he’s just the guy you hire out if you’re needing help or resources or whatever. I have no idea  _ what  _ resources, but that’s what he said on the phone after calling through two other people.”

Great, a mercenary. None of them had run into any before, only stories that other people would tell. Bob made it sound like they charged an arm and a leg just for them to lift their arm and point who had hidden fangs. Hunters were good at what they did, but it came with costs, and more likely, a shitty social life without connections; mercenaries always had plenty. A bunch of CIA motherfuckers who knew everything but wouldn’t give up jack shit without a price tag attached. They were rare, they were useful, but they were out to make a buck where hunters couldn’t afford it.

At least, that’s what Frank’s mind led him to believe.

“Hell, maybe he knows something,” Chris continued. “I didn’t ask, I don’t have time to be that caught up in this again, I like my blood where it is. Look, I have his number if you’re wanting it, maybe you can muster a favor out of him, I don’t know.”

By now Frank had sat himself up, and he gave a small sigh. There wasn’t any harm in having a third party’s number, right?

_ Frankie, never doing the heavy lifting himself. Fucking shocker. _

He made the universal sign for pen after getting Ray’s attention. “Yeah, I’ll take it. Is the guy really called Hambone?”

“Apparently. Maybe it’s his street name for drug selling, I have no idea.”

Ray tore out a page in his notebook and handed it to Frank, who scribbled down the number with a shockingly familiar area code. No wonder Bob’s name unlocked the door to everything.

“Alright, I’ve got it, thanks man.”

“Yeah no problem. See you later or not.”

Frank hung up, Ray waiting patiently enough, eyes on the paper with the phone number.

“Apparently Bob knew mercenaries in New York,” Frank explained, trying to keep his chest from tightening at the words. “This is the number for one of them, but I bet even texting them costs five dollars a sentence or something.”

“Is that who you were talking to?”

Frank shook his head. “Nah, just someone who wanted to help out.”

Ray snorted. “Are they willing to pay for the services?”

“I fucking wish.”

He took the paper, nodding his head in thought. “Well, better to have a last resort than nothing at all, I guess.”

“I guess. Just don’t sell any of our guitars if we have to pay the guy, Angel hasn’t seen enough of the world yet.”

“Nah, I’ll just sell your stage clothes or something, for when we’re famous. It’ll be a future investment.”

“Yeah, bullshit to that, but I admire the underhandedness, Toro. We could make a con man out of you yet.” From his pocket, Frank produced a pack of cigarettes, lighting one with a steady hand. But even from that, he could see the grip on the small box, clear as day.

“What about you?”

“Me, a con man? I’m flattered at the aspect, we’ll go into business together.”

“No, I mean, are you okay with all this? If he brought up Bob—”

“Ugh, I swear to God,” his hands clenched through the new air of smoke, “if one more person asks if I’m okay I’ll go apeshit. Can we just finish this fucking job?”

Ray was taken aback. “I… I’m sorry, man.”

The fit of rage dissipated as quickly as it had come, like whiplash. “Yeah, me too, whatever. Look, I’m already short and angry, I don’t need people giving me sympathy when I don’t need it.”

“When would anyone need sympathy?”

“I don’t know, it was kinda nice when I broke my ankles in high school, I got a shit ton of free weed and Smarties.”

“So we can only sympathize if we buy you candy and drugs,” he said flatly. “Gerard’s gonna take care of that with gusto.”

“It’s the only acceptable form of sympathy,” Frank said. “Do you think his drug habit’s getting any worse?”

He shrugged. “It’s not getting any better, but not worse is the silver lining. Unless he’s tripping during a show or a hunt, we can’t really say anything, it’s only those times when someone gets killed.”

_ Ha! That sounds familiar, doesn’t it? _

Frank took a shaky huff of smoke, thankful that Ray had turned to watch a jogger enter the tunnel from the path behind them. 

“Mikey’ll keep him in check. He’s good at those silent ‘I don’t know if you asked but I’ma do it anyways’ kind of agreements.”

Ray turned back around, taking the piece of paper that stuck out of his notebook. “So we finally earned enough track record to find a mercenary. If only we could  _ pay _ the fucker, we’d finally have our names out there.”

“The guy on the phone recommended we ask for a favor. But that also might mean opening a tab, and that always stacks up.”

“It’d be worth a shot, I think, but it’s not like we need help right now, we’ve got—”

“Ray,” Frank interrupted, body stone-still and gaze fixed in front of him.

“What?”

His head lowered towards the tunnel in one smooth motion, eyes hidden but mouth thin and tense.

There was a reason punks were treated so crap by police in the 80’s: they tore shit up to beat the system. They caused riots and head banged and listened to music so loud that ear drums would bleed. It was a kickass time: drugs were rampant, sex with anyone and everyone was common, and there was unity where fighting the imaginary God entity—but very real leaders and establishments—was concerned. But anyone who recognized them, against them or not, would be scared for something so flashy and yet so dark for their chosen get-ups. It made them unique, but those from outside the circle didn’t know that, and they had trouble swallowing the physical aspects as well as the moralities they stood behind. It was distinct, and it put you on auto-lock where security and feds had an eye on you.

Nowadays, punk was common in New York and anywhere in the East coast, but the distinction did have a point: if hunters saw the garb, red flags were raised.

To be fair, however, freaks kill people. It was a red flag that made sense.

The Van Halen shirt over worn-out but otherwise clean jeans would have made for a less distinct freak, the tattoo sleeves modest and most of their facial jewelry removed, save for one piercing in the nose. “Upstanding member of society” wasn’t the first term that came to mind, but maybe it was casual day. Their partner clung close to them via affection, gripping their arm with a hand slipped into the other’s back pocket, wearing a short black dress and boots that looked comfortable and not four inches high.

They could have been wrong. The one tipping point that made Frank do his own double take was the giant black umbrella they were holding. In this overcast day. With sunglasses that rivaled Gerard’s in absurdity.

Punks were allowed to free roam in parks, Ray and Frank were the last people to become hypocrites in  _ that  _ sense, but too many boxes were ticked to ignore them outright.

“Great,” was all Ray muttered, turning back to look at Frank with a frustrated gaze. That was lesson one in reconnaissance: too many eyes and they’ll realize the threat. For him, it meant turning his back and relying on lieutenant short-fuse for confirmation.

For Frank, it meant proper goddamn distraction.

They had paused at the mouth of the tunnel, casually leaning against the mossy stone, the one in the dress reaching into her purse. Words passed between them, but neither party had a chance of hearing the other.

Intending to stake out with a clear head, Frank lit another cigarette and watched with a cool expression.

“Do you think we should call the brothers?” Ray asked.

Frank shook his head. “Let’s watch and wait, my dear.” He looked towards him again, giving a slightly more relaxed smirk. “Just don’t panic at that.”

“At what?”

“Excuse me, can I borrow your lighter?”

Ray’s back and shoulders stiffened at the fairy-esque voice speaking very suddenly to his left, looking up to see the one in the dress standing over them, looking bright-eyed and hopeful.

There was no umbrella with them, either. Van Halen still had it with him, holding it up even in the shadows. Fuck.

Frank handled it with better ease. “Sure, just bring her back. Although, play with anything stronger and I may invite ourselves over.”

They gave a wide smile, somehow clashing with the night clothing she was wearing.

“You wish.”

And, sticking out her tongue to display the tease, she went back to Van Halen.

Ray’s shoulders relaxed. “Well, she’s out, unless she’s a pet.”

Pets were rare, too, and it was a simpler reasoning: they didn’t live very long.

There was one last test Frank had up his sleeve, and it was the first instance he would see it through since receiving the lighter back in Jersey.

“While I’m glad that you’re remaining calm, we do need a game plan,” Ray continued.

Frank looked at him sideways. “Give it a second, Toro, I’m technically working now.”

“You mean you’re just staring at the possible target.”

“Did I ever tell you about my lighter?”

Ray’s head turned to look at the couple, but halfway through thought better of the action, and he sighed. “Your lighter? No, it’s a gas station lighter.”

“Ye of little faith, my dear. There’s a reason I’ve had this piece of shit for a year.”

Ray didn’t seem very amused, while Frank’s eyes remained on the couple resting at the corner of the tunnel, lighting cigarettes. When the chick passed the lighter to her partner, he flicked the mechanism and immediately flinched, the flame immediately going out after a single try. Two more tries ended the same: them waving their hand in pain. The girl took the lighter with an eye roll and lit the stick for herself.

Bingo.

“Thank you,” she eventually told him after making the walk back.

“My pleasure,” Frank said, placid, despite the smug mood pulling at the edges of his lips. 

When Ray knew she was out of earshot, he remained quiet for an explanation, lips pursed in clear impatience, contrary to his usual steadiness. Freaks were walking around in daylight hours; Frank couldn’t blame him.

“James has a friend of a friend who’s a priest back home,” Frank explained, twirling the lighter in his free hand. “Bastard wasn’t a child molester either, and apparently anything that you want blessed by a priest, they wave their hands in the air and do it, including the metal gears in this little fucker.”

Ray held out his hand, and Frank set the metal lighter into it. 

“How come you’ve never mentioned it before? That’s pretty amazing, Frankie.”

Frak shrugged, but was clearly proud of himself. “Never came up. It’s not that often a freak asks for a light from a stranger, y’know?”

“I  _ don’t  _ know, but I’ll take your word for it.” He tossed it back. “But now this means we have a freak not one hundred yards from us, in daylight, with no dark spaces to take them out.”

Frank nodded in consideration. “We’ll just watch ‘em for a while, it doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere.” True to his word, the couple took to sharing the embers of the burnt cigarette, transferring the spark one cigarette and one joint. “We’ll find an opportunity, and it’s not like the freak can do much during the daytime, anyways.”

Ray nodded. “Maybe they can lead us to any others?”

“A stakeout it is. I hope we can swing lunch during that time.”

“Ask our resident finance manager yourself. I’m texting him now.”

~

_ “I remember your eyes, when I said leave you alone…” _

The show was only slightly more crowded than their usual nights, and it was on “usual” nights that they would be doing recon, but shows this close to home didn’t call for it. Somehow, word had gotten out—likely from the majority of Ray’s and Frank’s friends—that they were starting a short jaunt through Jersey and up to New York, and it was just in time for Frank’s holiday birthday, getting an extra five to ten faceless individuals into the pit.

Unfortunately, Gerard was more worried in that moment about Mikey. He hadn’t been given much of a choice of whether playing tonight was best, but the last thing they—as a group—wanted to do was cancel and disappoint those who had come out.

Mikey stayed close to the bar for the time being, his bass laying on the ground and sticking out for any passerby to trip on.

Gerard saw Bob go by and move the instrument out of the way gently, then gave Mikey a quick shoulder grasp before moving on and talking to one of the bartenders on the other side of the basement.

He excused himself from a conversation about a new recreation center with bowling and a bar that Frank seemed pretty excited about, moving towards Mikey in a beeline and taking the empty seat next to him. There was only a single half empty glass in front of him, which was good news, but the metaphorical clouds hanging over his head created the aura of despair.

There was a lingering panic that Mikey would drop from their “tour”, and he would be left alone with the rest of them to begin hunting. It would let Mikey stay safe, but Gerard was selfish: they’d both learned, riding or dying together sounded the most ideal.

“What are you drinking?” he asked when Mikey looked up to see him, but didn’t say anything.

“It’s gin,” he mumbled.

No band was playing yet, but Gerard struggled to hear the response. “Gin and tonic?”

He reached for the glass, taking a swig of his own and nearly choking. No, just gin.

“You don’t have to play tonight,” Gerard finally managed when his throat quit spasming.

He wasn’t kidding; it sounded different, not having a bass in the background, sounding incomplete, but this was a basement. No one usually noticed, especially if Bob made up for it with just a few more bass drum hits. That’s what the double pedal was for.

It wasn’t ideal, but it would be okay.

“Are you all playing?” he asked, barely taking a sip and watching Gerard with level eyes. They were clear now, none of the glassy qualities from the past week. It was definitely a start, and coming out tonight? Gerard could watch him better from here than from Ray’s apartment.

“Yeah, we are.”

“Then I am, too.” He tried a smile, and the effort was noble. “Don’t worry, Gee. If anything, this is a kickass distraction from… everything. They… they might even show up.”

“They might,” Gerard agreed, hesitant. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up though. Would it be shitty of me to ask you to play for me, instead of them? You know, just in case they don’t come.”

Mikey noticed the frantic gesturing of his hands, the indication of his nervousness and guilt. “No, it’s not. You’ve been good to me, Gee, and I don’t plan on going anywhere. I’m ready to hunt in New York.”

“That’s good, just… tell me if you need a break or something. The guys, they’ll understand, and going into hunting may not be very healthy right now.” He wanted him there so bad, but not to get himself killed or hooked on hunting for freaks. That was the last thing he wished for Mikey.

He snorted, then drained his glass. “I’ll let you know if I do. I’ll also let you know when you’re being the textbook big brother and overprotective. If you try to guide the aim of a stake I’m using, we’re  _ both _ going home.”

“A fair compromise.” A tickle at his neck made him turn, and he saw Frank watching them, a single eyebrow crooked in a question. Gerard gave him a thumbs up, to which he nodded and gestured to the stage. On it, Ray was beginning to mobilize, playing with some amps. It was time. “You ready, Mikes?”

Mikey looked over, and the gloom surrounding him had briefly lifted. “Yeah, let’s do it.” He left a few dollars on the counter and grabbed his bass, heading up.

_ “I chose to leave my life behind/The wrong choice written on my wrist…” _

***

_ “Get my fucking head back to the ground!” _

The last few riffs brought the set to a close, and the heat that bounced off the stage, into the crowd, and back around again was stifling.

Cleanup took longer than usual, the crowd stopping them when they tried to get moving with their congratulations, then the band after being too finicky to touch their things and help get the stage cleared. Assholes.

Mikey was one of the first finished, Gerard helping take over while Frank was occupied, physically unable to move back and take the amps by himself. Gerard watched from the corner of his eye as Mikey held his phone to his ear, face utterly confused with pursed lips. He brought the screen away from his head to look at it, then brought it back, listening to a second message. His friends seemed to finally be acknowledging the show they had missed.

“Gerard, you asshole, come on!” someone shouted, in time for Gerard to see Frank stepping onto the stage, cheeks still flushed.

He helped Gerard lift the smaller unit away, the metal slippery in his hands. Frank was watching his movements with a cautious gaze. “I’m not trusting you with my baby, its gonna end up destroyed  _ when _ you trip on the cables.”

“Fuck off,” Gerard said, though carefully watched his steps as they moved them down the stairs. “Have you forgotten who can throw a knife better than whom?”

“There’s a big fucking difference between throwing a knife and having precisely zero balance. Have you forgotten who sprints with less total faceplants?”

“That was  _ one time _ .” The door outside was locked, so he took to stacking against the other piled equipment, it going on top of the hard case of Bob’s bass drum.

“That’s more than zero.” With his short stature, he patted Gerard on top of the head with a smug smile and skipped back on stage, Gerard fuming behind him. Besides the cords, there wasn’t much else to do.

However, the moment Gerard took the small set of stairs back to ground level—lest falling and spraining an ankle from the slight jump—Mikey had grabbed Gerard’s arm and pulled him aside.

His face had gone from his earlier confusion to outright panic.

“Gerard, I—I have to go.”

“Go where now?” His mouth was open but speechless at the amount of emotion rolling through Mikey. This was a new emotional stage of the breakup, right? “What’s wrong?”

“Kay… Kay’s in the hospital.”

Gerard shook his head, thinking he misheard. “W-what?”

“Kay’s in the hospital, their mom—I gotta go.”

“The hospital?” Gerard wiped at his forehead, coming away sweaty. “Mikey, there’s not -”

“Gerard, l need to  _ go _ !”

He blinked. It had been an age since Mikey genuinely yelled _ at  _ him, the last time being when he slipped on coffee he had spilled in the kitchen six years ago. Mikey’s eyes were frantic, and there was no denying something was incredibly wrong.

Gerard felt out of it and unable to process what was happening, but sticking around Mikey seemed to be the best option.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll go with you.”

“I… we need a fucking taxi.” His scoff into the air was jarring and mechanical, like a robot, phone tight in his hand. “What the fuck is the number?”

He began to type furiously through his contacts in the same moment that Ray came by with beer bottles in hand, handing one to Gerard. “A successful job, if I…” He looked between the two of them, expression melting off his face to caution. “What is it?”

“Kay’s in the hospital,” Gerard filled in, and he saw Mikey stiffen. “We’re getting a cab over there.”

“Take my car.” He reached to his belt, unhooking the latch and working his car key to his Honda off. “Come back to my place when you’re done.”

“Are you sure?” Gerard asked. Mikey looked hopeful, but not angry at Gerard for making sure.

Ray flinched, his mouth creasing in an emotion Gerard couldn’t read. “I’m very sure. Be careful, okay? Call me if you can, we’ll take care of things here.”

Gerard nodded with a flood of relief, grabbing the key in one hand and Mikey’s arm in the other, each leading the other out of the underground. Frank saw the sudden motion, and he looked between Ray and the brothers with confused eyes.

The drive to the hospital was tense, but Gerard refused to give the keys to Mikey to drive, simply from the fact that they would either be caught by the police for speeding, or speeding into a building and joining them in a hospital bed.

Gerard didn’t say anything along those lines, but he saw the utter stillness that Mikey sunk into from the passenger seat. When Gerard got nervous, his body wouldn’t be able to stop fidgeting, shaking, bouncing, or all of the above. The opposite was true of his brother, sinking into his own head for the multitude of exaggerated hypotheticals and events leading up to whatever had happened. He didn’t ask for details; now really wasn’t the time.

There was a reason every scenario was moving through his mind. Kay was supposed to come tonight, before their breakup less than a week ago.

Anti-Flag was playing on the radio. It was the only break in silence.

Gerard felt his phone buzz with a call in his pocket, but answering it for any conversation seemed wrong, and eventually it stopped. If Mikey heard the noise, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Eventually, the only hospital just outside of Belleville was in sight. Parking was always impossible and just far away enough that losing Mikey in a dead sprint was a very real possibility, so the car ended up in the drop off, only a few feet away from an ambulance.

“I’ll wait in the lobby, okay? Don’t do anything crazy.”

Mikey nodded and slid out of the car in one fluid motion, the squeal of the car door a wake-up call into lonesomeness.

It took ten minutes of careful maneuvering around traffic cones and a single three point turn to find a parking spot that wasn’t reserved. He huffed as best he could with his smoker’s lungs back to the same entrance, tripping once on a raised piece of sidewalk. It was a hospital, wasn’t a danger like that slightly redundant?

When he managed to get inside via the automatic doors, his brotherly senses immediately sought and found Mikey, standing in a far hallway off to the side, his dark ensemble making him a tall, imposing shadow against the fluorescent lights steadily shining above. Gerard could barely see him from a profile, the light working against him. 

He was on the phone again, his arm raised in the familiar position. Had he been kicked out of the actual hospital wing? Gerard had to wonder why Mikey wouldn’t try the blood-family-relative lie. 

“Mikey.”

He didn’t meet his eyes immediately, head bending down and bangs covering the greater amount of his face. The phone was lowered from his ear, and put back into his pocket, and, like every great and shitty drama out there, his face lifted to show his eyes. They were full of tears, a trail forming down his face. His jaw was clenched tight enough that it could be causing enough of the tremble in his chin and lip.

Dread shot through Gerard like a bullet. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A child whined in the waiting area.

“Kay’s dead.”

Mikey’s voice was neutral, surprising his brother.

Gerard tried to reach out and embrace him, but Mikey ducked away, moving further into the hall and beginning a lazy but stiff pace on the spit-shined tile.

“Mikey, I’m so sorry,” he said, grasping dead air in front of him.

“Their mom’s in there. She was screaming. She slapped me.”

“She what?” An ounce of anger colored his voice.

“Can’t blame her. We all want someone to blame, I guess. That’s what happens, there’s always someone to blame, right?”

Mikey’s back was still to Gerard, and he had to stalk forward to meet him. Gerard wasn’t the smartest when it came to people, but he knew his brother. “Mikey, this isn’t your fault, it was an accident, that –”

“What a load of bullshit, Gerard,” he interrupted, emotion dancing at the edge of his clipped words. “That is utter bullshit. There’s always someone to blame. There’s a fuckton of blame to go around. Hell, they’re probably giving me the finger right now, wherever their fucking soul is.”

“It was just an accident, Mikey,” he affirmed with the strongest punch his words could give. Mikey’s face was a flurry of emotion once he could get him to stay still, cheeks red and skin splotchy. “This was nowhere near your fault, you weren’t even in the  _ car.” _

“I should have been!” His voice echoed off the walls. “I should have been in the car, I should have performed for them, I should have died with them in the fucking passenger seat, don’t you  _ get it _ !?”

Gerard knew a few heads likely turned in their direction, but crowd control was a skill he knew little about, almost less than trying to comfort those he loved. “We can’t change the past, Mikes, you know -”

“It was you.”

Gerard paused, eyes wide. His body automatically shifted back a few inches in sheer instinct. “I… what?”

“It was you.” His finger pointed out, slender and crooked, in his direction. He may as well have been pointing the barrel of a gun at Gerard’s chest. “This was because of you. I knew it, I fucking knew it, you fucking  _ asshole _ Gerard, it was you, it was always  _ you _ !”

An individual in scrubs was coming down the hall towards them, chin and chest out, face guarded. He recognized the cue, and knew he didn’t want to face it, even if Mikey in hysterics was coming first on his priority list.

“Mikey, come on, we can’t stay.”

Mikey looked behind him and, with hands swiping across his face, took long ardent strides back to the entrance. Gerard tried to reach out for his shoulder again, but he dodged it neatly. He tried to ignore the suspension of gravity set in his chest.

This… this wasn’t his fault, right? How could it be?

Trembling had began to take over Mikey’s shoulders as they went outside, but his face was otherwise wiped clean.

“You mean you didn’t know?” he said as soon as he crossed the threshold back outside, moisture immediately clinging to their skin. “Kay made their point very clear. They said the amount of time I spent with you was too much, that you were ‘changing’ me. We would hunt, and I would come back different. They didn’t want me with you. Now they’re dead, and it’s just... you. It’s always you.” He took a shuddering breath, which Gerard soon learned was laughter. “Is that what you wanted, Gerard? We hunt dead things, and Kay’s the one that died. We fucking killed them, we dug the damn grave.”

“We didn’t, Mikey.” Gerard was near the verge of tears. “This… it wasn’t us, they were driving, we weren’t hunting.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to it.” Mikey shook his head. “I never should have done this with you, it was fucking stupid, and they’re dead Gerard, they’re on a fucking metal slab inside –”

“I can’t do it without you,” Gerard admitted, feeling small and overwhelmed. “This, doing what we do, the band and the freaks, I can’t do it, I can’t do it without you.”

“You’re damn right.” Mikey’s voice choked. “The minute you leave, the minute you go away, it’s going to be you in that fucking hospital, you and the freaks, and Ray and Bob and Frank, you all are going to leave -” A sob seemed to cause his own interruption.

“It was just an accident, Mikey.” Gerard rubbed at his eyes. “That’s all it was. It was an accident.”

Mikey’s fists were clenched, hard enough that veins criss-crossed on his hands. Gerard reached out and pried his hands open, feeling the heat and crescent-pressed indents on the palms. His brother hadn’t pulled away this time, and he seemed to sink to the ground, chest resting against Gerard. They both landed awkwardly near the curb, Gerard sitting with Mikey in what resembled an uncomfortable curl of his body, Gerard a pillar of support as Mikey shivered and cried into his shoulder and arm.

People passed them, but no one told them to move their position. If anything, the bystanders allowed a shred more empathy and space than what would be warranted in other settings and situations. It was understanding. Miracles could happen here, but so could plenty of tragedies.

Mikey’s sobbing was quiet, and eventually the shivers lowered themselves to sniffles and quiet sighs. It was only then that Gerard allowed himself to detach only slightly to take his poor phone out of his pocket. The brick was warm, multiple missed calls from Frank and a single voice message, one each from Ray, Bob, and their mom, were present.

“Everyone’s worried,” Gerard said to Mikey. He only nodded in response, not bothering to go for his own device.

As if on cue, his screen lit with a new incoming call. It was Frank.

Gerard took a single breath. “Hello?”

“Christ, Gerard, there you are. Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on? Toro won’t explain why you guys left, the considerate bastard, no one knows where you are.”

“Frank, I… We need to cancel the hunt.”

~

“Oh, fuck.”

Mikey’s quiet exclamation wasn’t enough to gain Gerard’s attention outright, his head bent down in intense concentration at a city map that had been previously vandalized with foreign pens; marking the few murder dumping ground ideas was the least of it’s problems, compared to the number of stussy S’s and dick representations.

He was in the middle of triangulation when Mikey roused him properly.

“Ray and Frank have eyes on a freak in the park,” Mikey told him.

He looked up from the paper, eyebrows dented. “During the day?”

Mikey busied himself with the multiple messages, hair falling into his gaze. “Apparently they have a very nice umbrella.”

“Are they sure?” he asked, skeptical.

“Ray swears by it. Something about metal blessed by a priest. Is that a thing?”

Gerard shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s better than nothing to go on.”

His pursed lips conveyed his indecision. “They said they’ll stick around and follow them until an opportunity comes, but I think we should go out there.”

“Are they saying we should go out there?”

“Well, no, but—”

“They’re fine, then. If they needed us they would have told you so.”

“But it’s a freak, in the  _ daytime _ ,” Mikey exclaimed. “If nothing else, I would wanna go and see it.”

“We might later,” Gerard granted him, “but right now we’re more helpful here.”

Mikey seemed defeated, but after texting out a reply, he tossed the phone onto the table to face the mass stacks of paper in front of them, choosing to rifle through the stack of missing persons, the vast majority of them marked and written onto a list of categories.

“So, what, we know there’s more than one, right?”

“Seems that way, yeah. Or we have a serial killer freak on our hands.” It wasn’t a bad idea for a freak to have: drain some, kill others, never get caught. It was a wonder more freaks didn’t try it, unless they had gotten incredibly talented enough in the idea that none had been caught. It was a terrifying thought.

To prove it, Mikey’s mouth creased at the corners. “I’d rather assume more than one, just for sanity.”

Gerard nodded, only gazing at the paper in front of him. “Do you think they’re here in Brooklyn?”

“I have no idea where they are,” Mikey admitted, sullen. “How’s that for admitting defeat?”

“It’s only noon,” Gerard reminded him. He bit back a swear word after smudging the ink drawing on the left side of the page. “I think the defeat can get worse from here.”

“Way to keep your head up, Gerard.” Mikey stood up, phone to his ear and quickly moving to the double doors for a call.

Gerard took the time to fill in his nails with the pen’s ink, the blue adding a bruise hue to the enamel and cuticles surrounding it. The coloring was rough and constant, the dull pain of pressing the point letting him drift out of his stupor with a solid amount of clarity, a decent couple with the lukewarm coffee he was now allowed to ingest. The impulse to go back to the van and fish out their emergency bourbon to spike it was overwhelming, so the focus instead went to the ink that now covered the entirety of the nail and skin of the finger, half the phalange dipped face down into unpolluted ocean blue.

His attention was so glued to the task in front of him that he didn’t notice Mikey’s presence until his phone was tossed onto the wooden table again, sitting down with a “hmph”. Gerard was quiet, eyebrows raised, until Mikey spoke.

“Check in and set up starts at six-thirty, and we’re second. No way in hell can we look after our lead and keep our set.”

“Is the set that important?”

“We’re getting paid for it,” Mikey said, sounding flustered at the dilemma.

“And what happened to ‘if we don’t do this no one will’?”

He rolled his eyes. “I know what I said, but I didn’t think we’d track a fucker in the daytime. Their schedule is supposed to be the same as us.”

Gerard laughed once, a low pitch in the back of his throat. “That would mean hunting made sense. It doesn’t.”

Mikey had picked his phone back up, beginning to type. “Way to state the obvious. Mom said the same thing when I told her about this trip.”

“Wait, what?” His dash of panic led to the paper on the table flicked to the other side.

“Not like that, you idiot, I mean coming back to New York after… everything.” It wasn’t ideal, but now was a good time as any. “She’s worried about you.”

Gerard shrugged. “She’d be more worried if she found out what I did for a  _ living  _ living. Probably wouldn’t let us leave the house.”

“Not about the hunting, I mean she said you leave the house alot, no one knows where you go, and I’m apparently the one to ask-slash-yell-at when my brother leaves at ass o’clock.”

“I go for a walk,” he said simply, shrugging. “Or I’m at Toro’s. You know that.”

_ Do I, though? _ “Look, I’m only bringing it up because when she can’t talk to you, she harps at me. And she’s  _ right _ , you know, both about us living at home  _ and  _ you being stupid and walking around Belleville by yourself.” Gerard’s lips pursed at the papers in front of him, and Mikey guessed at his thoughts. “She’s right, but I sure as hell didn’t tell her that. I’m just telling you.”

“Moms are supposed to worry,” Gerard reasoned. “Ours is no different, save for the number of texts you get when she’s expecting to have dinner with us.”

Mikey stifled a laugh, but silently cursed Gerard for trying to slide the subject elsewhere. “It’s supposed to be a good thing. We kill freaks or they kill us, it’s nice to have dinner with someone that cares about us.”

“And she worries for the wrong reason.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors, not talking about things.” Mikey let out a huff. “We’re all fucked up here, you know that, and even if you can’t tell mom, I thought you could tell me.”

“You just said it,” Gerard said, Mikey expecting him to be angry, but instead just sounding tired. “We’re all fucked up, no need to fucking shatter one another.” He shook his head. “I’m fine Mikey, or need I point out the fact that  _ you  _ were the one that wanted to go through with this godforsaken tour.”

“I wasn’t alone in that,” he said, jutting his chin out in defiance. He looked ready to defend his honor, but the buzz from his phone drew his attention away, pressing buttons with dexterous fingers. “Ray says he and Frank have an idea, whatever that could mean.” Frank having an idea usually entailed grievous bodily harm or pissing someone off to make them snap, but having Ray as common sense on his shoulder would help.

He saw the follow-up barrage of texts, and the idea shriveled up slightly.

_ -the biggest venue we’re ever going to play, and no name or not, we’d be crazy to pass this up. _

_ I thought we were supposed to be working…? _

_ Por que no las dos? _

_ Don’t pull heritage on me to cover your ass. _

_ It’s a good gig, and we’re getting paid for it. I’d call that a balance of priorities. _

Seeing his own argument being used against him was a hypocrisy that Mikey did not appreciate. “Ray’s too excited about this show tonight. Did he mention anything about it before now?”

“You’re asking if Ray shared his emotions with me,” Gerard said flatly. “That answer is no.”

Mikey sighed, texting out a reply and resisting the urge to throw his phone across the quiet space. “He’s been acting weird, too. I feel like he would be avoiding us if we didn’t crash so much on his couch.”

Gerard only nodded, thinking about the amount of time that Toro spent in his room, either making music or playing it loud enough that an interruption felt unwise. If he wanted to truly be alone, why didn’t he just kick them out? It wasn’t like they would end up on the street, or even be offended, since they were mooching off the rent-free space more often than not.

“He talks alot about traveling,” Mikey continued, watching Gerard for a reaction. “All the places we haven’t hit on tour yet. West coast, too.”

“He wants to move there someday. Apparently Nashville was an option.”

“You  _ did  _ know about this!” Mikey shouted suddenly, making Gerard jump. “You knew Ray was leaving, didn’t you?”

“I never said he was! Ray’s not leaving, he would have told us.” He found a sense of assuredness in that statement, taking comfort in the single earth-shattering event that did not come to pass. “I think he’s just tired, and he lost his brother, I can’t imagine how fucked up that feels, even now.”

Mikey sat back in his chair. He had a point: no matter how much time passed in between, losing a sibling or family member, it had to mess with your head.

There was a selfish thought behind his eyes, that he wished things could go back to normal. But, while normal was a stretch into fictional territory, what had been normal before? Was it before he lost Kay, before almost losing Gerard, before starting hunting? They wouldn’t be a band without that aspect.

“You’re right, he would have told us.”

~

Bob was busy adjusting the grip of the knife in Frank’s hand, and it honestly took a lot of willpower to keep Gerard from laughing at the exchange. There was a constant reminder in his head: they were choosing to kill another living being, making light of that was wrong on so many levels, even if it was what needed to be done.

And yet, every once in a while, a smile would break on his face as he wrote in his notebook. Again, somber sentiments that were going from pen to paper, and yet there he was, a stupid grin breaking on his face while he pushed to write about meeting Ray back home, making it as subtle and untraceable as possible. Only Ray and maybe Mikey would understand.

It wasn’t a happy time. Stop fucking smiling.

“This is so stupid,” Frank exclaimed after the blade failed to stick in the tree. “They’re not sharp enough.”

They were meant to be training blades, the metal rusted and dull and likely useless for the intended purpose, but they still stuck in the trunk of the oak tree, so long as the aim was correct.

Gerard had gotten it after about an hour of focus. He was excused.

“The point is sharp enough that it’ll stick,” Bob explained. “If it hits the mark, it’ll stay.”

“What a load of horseshit,” Frank concluded, but otherwise readied his feet to send it flying again. “Why the hell are we throwing these anyways? I don’t want to be pulling any Chuck Norris stunt moves if we’re just trying to kill the fuckers.”

“It’s meant to help with dexterity.” Bob’s patience with Frank’s stubbornness with a blade was commendable; Gerard would have given up. “And you’ll almost always have more than one blade on you. You can make use of it as best you can.”

“Oh yeah, just for all the trees we’re going to hit, they’ll be so scared.” The knife flew out of his hand, sticking for exactly one moment before gravity pulled it down to the grass and dirt. “Son of a cunt.”

“You need more power on the follow-through. That will come later.”

_ It’s time our life together won’t be determined by tragedy... _

“Why can’t I just have my bat? Or the fucking crowbar from three nights ago?  _ That  _ shit was effective.”

Bob shook his head. “Can you think of a legit excuse to carry around a bat or crowbar into the venues?”

“Sure, I’m scared of baseball-playing freaks,  and you gotta give them a taste of their own medicine. Good dose of irony.”

“Again.”

Frank made a noise that bordered on inhuman, but another knife was adjusted and re-adjusted in his hand. Gerard knew it bothered him that he couldn’t get it right, and his determination to do so outweighed any frustration that prompted him to give up.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” 

“Ray? You okay?”

“Fine.” The huffing in his voice pointed to the fact that he was not okay. “You all still at the park?”

“Yeah, I’m writing and Frank’s working with Bob.”

“He’s killing me and my spirit!” Frank yelled. Gerard waved him off.

“Heading your way.”

“Ray, you sure you’re okay? You shouldn’t drive angry.”

“No, I shouldn’t. I’ll be there soon.”

He hung up, and Gerard knew it wasn't a good sign. It took a lot to get Ray annoyed, and even more to become angry. Surely his parentage struck again this afternoon.

“What’d Toro want?” Bob asked, keeping a single hand pressed against Frank’s chest as he tried to reach for the more wicked knives on his person.

“He’s on his way over. I don’t think you should let him use knives today.”

“Noted.” He rolled his eyes. “Frank, stop, you’re gonna pull something, and we’re working tonight.”

“If I pull something, then I get to just throw knives, right? This’ll be worth it.”

“Go get the others.”

“Fuck you, too.” But he listened.

Ray’s truck was audible on the deserted side of the park about fifteen minutes later, the door slamming and his shadow coming through the trees, guitar case in hand. If he was angry like Gerard suspected from the phone call, it was wiped clean on his face as he made his way to them, his mouth a thin line as he sat next to Gerard in the shade.

Gerard allowed themselves to stay in silence for a few moments as he finished his thoughts on the page, scribbling out as many pronouns as he could, before looking up at Ray.

Ray pretended he didn’t notice, but Gerard was the master at long, uncomfortable silences, and it was rare for him to break first. The only time he didn’t win was with Mikey.

“Don’t do that,” Ray finally managed, hands rubbing against the wooden guitar case.

Jackpot.

“Do what?”

“Act like something’s wrong. It’s okay.”

“Ray, one of your brothers just died. Of course you’re not okay. That’s why I didn’t want you driving.”

“Aside from that.” He shook his head. “I’ll have time to grieve soon enough, so really, it’s okay.”

Gerard sighed and closed the book in front of him. “It’s  _ supposed  _ to be okay, but sometimes it isn’t.”

“Incredibly philosophical of you, Gee.” Ray looked from the target practice to Gerard, in time to miss Frank sink a blade into the bark and remain there.

“ _ Get fucked! _ ” Frank shouted, immediately grabbing another and raring to go again.

“What I mean is, you say you’re fine, but you don’t have to be, and hiding it for our benefit is not doing anyone any favors, including us.”

The indecision was clear on his face. Getting Ray to admit something was wrong was like pulling teeth. Gerard was used to Frank wearing their emotions on his sleeves, reading Mikey like a picture boom, and Bob telling you with a straight face that he was pissed.

This was different, and pressing for information seemed right. You didn’t lose a sibling and take it lightly; the idea of losing Mikey was the worst thing Gerard could ever imagine.

He sighed, looking down at the dirt floor like it held all the answers he was seeking, secrets to his own emotions.

“It’s just my folks,” he said as preamble, rendering Gerard’s prediction correct. “I know how hard this is on them, and I get that, but taking out all their stress, and planning for the funeral, and aiming it at everyone, it just feels unfair, and I’m the only one that’s here. My other brothers won’t be here until Monday night, so getting the brunt of it until then is just gonna be tough.”

Gerard nodded like he understood, but in reality, the subject was foreign. How could you convince someone with a close-knit family that death wouldn’t be the thing to unravel it? “So has the planning gone to you then? We can help if you want, it shouldn’t be you alone…”

Ray shook his head, a small smile dancing around his lips. “It’s me and my dad, but I do appreciate you offering. It’s my mother, she won’t talk to me anymore, unless it’s to yell at me, to not touch any of JJ’s things from his apartment. It got… heated.”

“I’m guessing you get that job, too. Moving everything.”

He nodded. “It needs to be cleared in a week. We have some time before our jaunt, so that part isn’t a big deal.”

“Then what is?”

He shrugged after a long moment. Whenever Mikey did that, it meant he knew the answer, but Gerard would need to pry some more to reach it. “Death is… complicated. You and Mikey know that.” Gerard nodded for him to continue. “You can’t just be sad, you have to go through those seven steps of grief, or however many there are. You have to be miserable, and angry, and just looking for someone to blame.”

“Your mom’s not blaming you, is she?”

“In her own special way, but I know she’s punishing herself, too. I think if they were expecting anyone to die of a drug overdose, they would have guessed me, doing what I do with you guys.”

“What, hunting freaks?”

“Not that part, just the shows in seedy places, going to parties, all that. I think they wish I’d have died more than my brother.”

“They said  _ what _ ?”

Frank had made his way over without either of them noticing, looking outraged beyond belief at Ray’s words. The spark in Bob’s eyes reflected similar anger and confusion to Gerard’s, but quickly had to stop Frank’s steps towards the parking lot, pulling him back with a single arm. He was planning an outing of his own, likely to make Ray’s parents regret their words against him.

Gerard was half-tempted to join him. Bob would drive.

“They didn’t say that to my face,” Ray quickly amended, arms frantically gesturing the matter. “I could honestly be exaggerating where their grief and anger is going, that’s just what it feels like to me. It would make sense if the last five years of my life were any indication.”

“Who gives a shit if they’re grieving?” Frank exclaimed. “You’re grieving too, you lost him too, they need to be fucking thankful that  _ you’re  _ still around.”

“Frank,” Bob warned.

“Don’t ‘Frank’ me,” he shot back. “If someone close to me died, yeah I’d be sad as hell, but you also have to be grateful for the people that are still around. You can’t have regret, you can’t go back and replay your actions, because you’d do the exact same shit anyways. Mikey was kickass at that part, he knew what was important. You grieve for the dead, yeah, but appreciate the living, they’re the people you’re stuck with.”

“Frank, shut up.” Bob’s words were clipped and strong enough that he actually listened, even if the scrunch of his face and death stare at Bob indicated he wasn’t finished.

Gerard looked at Ray in a panic, but he didn’t seem upset at Frank’s outburst. He held some truth and wisdom through the obscenities, and it was advice you would want anyone to follow if someone had died. But telling that to someone’s face when it was  _ their  _ emotions?

“Don’t get me wrong, Frankie, I wish it were that easy, I wish that every day. Things are just different now, and I can’t change how they feel and process things, I only can control what I do.”

“While that’s all well and good, you’re still their doormat, which is bullshit by the way, and you just lost family. If anything, you’ve earned a leave of absence from them, be around people that actually appreciate you.”

“Frank, they have a funeral and family coming, just getting up and leaving isn’t the most practical thing to do.” God, Gerard wanted to agree with Frank so much, but he knew the process when they’d lost their grandfather. It was a shit ton of formalities no one wanted to put themselves through, but did anyways.

“Screw practical, it shouldn’t be falling on Ray, the funeral  _ or  _ the shitty treatment, and  _ none  _ of you can argue that fact.” To prove his point, no one spoke. “Damn straight. So tonight, after the hunt, you’re not going to your folks’ place, we’re  _ all  _ staying in one spot to fucking love and hold each other, and that’s it. Deal?”

Everyone looked at Ray. He wasn’t crying, but misty eyes betrayed him.

“Yeah. That sounds alright.”

“Good. Now let’s go to the bookstore and give Mikey a reason to kick us out.”

~

The sun was hanging heavier in the sky with each passing moment, and Ray tried not to think about the consequences that the next few hours could hold. 

He wanted his guitar so badly on his person, it was a wonder he hadn’t trekked back to the library. Impulsive wasn’t a character trait he’d give to himself, but his hands could only wring themselves and gesture at empty air long enough before he did something about it.

“Calling all bullfighters to attention!”

Ray looked up at Frank’s approach, and the offer of a friendly face calmed his nerves fractionally. “Bullfighters?”

“Toro,” Frank answered, sitting on the ground and fishing into the fast food bag for his own pizza box before tossing the paper bag into Ray’s lap. “I assume Hambone hasn’t shown up yet.”

“No, you beat him.” Ray’s gyro was still warm, and it felt like a feast the size of his forearm. “Do you really think this guy’s gonna do this for free?”

Frank scoffed, wiping away sauce with his jacket sleeve. “Fuck no, no one does jack shit for free anymore. I figure we can at least squeeze some helpfulness from the guy before he starts crunching numbers. It’s not like he can mug us if we don’t pay, we have exactly four dollars and twelve cents to our names right now.”

“Maybe him being from Jersey helps, like, scoring brownie points or something.”

“I don’t know what baked goods has to do with anything,” Frank said, earning an annoyed glare from Ray, “but him being Jersey-born is more likely to screw us. Have you ever met a native that  _ didn’t  _ try to screw you?”

Ray shrugged. “More like they can commit to favors, but no one’s happy about it. Not even the person asking the favor.”

“I don’t think anyone likes the idea of following a freak down a dark alley, that just makes the fucker sane.”

“Not quite sane if he asks for money.”

“We’re not paying him.”

Ray gazed at the ground. “So where does that leave us?”

Frank thought for a moment, finishing his slice of pizza. “We’re all crazy, let’s hold hands with togetherness.”

“Some more than others,” Ray agreed with an eye roll. “I think it’ll be okay.”

“Then for the sake of devil’s advocate,  _ I  _ think this is a bad idea, only made worse by the fact we’re trusting him.”

Ray had to physically bite back the mentioning of Bob, how he had trusted them initially, when they were still learning about the monsters in the closets and how to beat them. “We can’t know until we meet him.”

“Ugh, I should have stolen a book from the library,” he lamented with a full mouth.

“I didn’t know you could read.”

Frank chucked a small piece of hard bread at Ray, bouncing off of his curls like a shield. “Libraries have picture books, Toro. I thought you knew that, those are your favorite.”

“Damn right they are,” he said with a mouthful of food.

Frank busied his hands with the flimsy cardboard pizza box, fingers tearing away at the edges. The couple at his peripheral vision hadn’t moved; rather, they took to the shade within the tunnel, reduced to only shadows outlined by a grey haze of smoke.

The scene had brought back a memory, one he wished would stay hidden: Bob, in a full body halo of smoke, and refusing to touch even one cigarette, no matter how much Gerard offered or Frank shoved them into his face. They were being assholes, but Bob’s resilience through it all, having it soon end when another band began speaking with them at the bar, was something to behold. Frank didn’t give up that easily.

God, why did he do that to him?

“Frank.”

He looked up, Ray giving him a peculiar look, all the while remembering to unclench his jaw. His self-loathing wasn’t  _ that  _ apparent, was it?

“Yeah, what?”

“I asked if he gave us a time. We shouldn’t be late for the show set-up tonight.” 

His mouth remained open while Frank reached for his phone, as if to continue the thought in his head. No, Frank would just berate him for bringing it up.

He closed his mouth.

“All he said was ‘be there soon’,” Frank read from the cracked screen. “So in Jersey terms, he’ll be here when he damn well pleases.”

“But you gave him the time frame, right?”

“Course I did, I’m not sitting on the ground any longer than we have to. Why the rush, Toro?  _ I’m _ the one that has to put on makeup  _ and _ sound check.”

“No reason. Just seems like a good show.”

Frank stretched his arms over his head, face contorting in discomfort. “I sure hope so, it’s the only thing keeping us from getting a nap before hunting.”

With Frank’s head down and Ray facing away, neither of them noticed the figure moving through the tunnel, waving away at the smoke that trailed out from the target couple. Frank didn’t manage to see him approach until he crossed from cement to grass.

“You guys are talking awfully loud about hunting for such a discreet practice.”

The stranger wasn’t much taller than Gerard, face square with a shock of black hair nearly brushing his eyebrows. Nothing about him looked threatening in any way, shape, or form, save for an observant, intelligent gleam in his eyes. The notion that he’d been listening to them without either realizing the volume was also disconcerting.

Frank raised a single eyebrow at the newcomer. “Loud or not, you’re still the one calling out  _ hunters _ . Pretty shit idea.”

He didn’t seem flustered by Frank’s bite, only mildly enthused, sizing up both individuals with his keen eye. “You say that like I can’t hold my own, as if  _ you _ need to be reminded that looks don’t predict the human.”

Both Ray and Frank looked at one another, taking an interest of their own.

“Hambone, right?” Ray asked.

“The one and only,” Hambone said, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“Ray.” He took it.

“What kind of name is Hambone?” Frank asked, before the two broke their own handshake.

“Certainly not a name my mother gave me,” he said, offering no other information. To Hambone’s credit, he was taking Frank’s attitude with more stride than any stranger they’d met in a long time.

“I’d hope not, it sounds like a Civil war generals nickname, like from the South. General Hambone racist-ass, at your service.”

Hambone gave an easy smile. “Someone should have warned the name giver, I like to think the Hambone of today has more wins than a racist ever will. Creating my legacy on my own.”

Frank’s newfound entertainment from the mercenary was short-lived as Ray interrupted. “We need a favor.”

He gave Ray the side eye. “At least I know who skips the informalities. Yes, Frank mentioned that. You all are Bob’s trainees, right? Taking up the mantle for yourselves?”

_ Not anymore, right, Frankie? _ “Yeah, and he mentioned you more than once. Freelancing out of New York? Sounds busy as hell.”

“Only if you think about it being busy. I like to think of it as a second calling.”

Frank turned to Ray. “Hear that? First time someone ever said freak involvement was a calling.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Hambone. “You must be a freak in the metaphor kind of sense.”

“People have called me worse,” Hambone said with a shrug.

“Frank,” Ray warned, trying to convey don’t-piss-off-our-only-chance-at-a-free-favor-from- a-mercenary as much as he could to the single word. “Look, Hambone, we’re here of our own volition with no money out of this deal. We’re not saints, and we need help, if you can help us.”

“Well it wouldn’t be very humbling if you  _ did  _ call yourself a saint,” Hambone noted, voice placid. “I’d call yourselves lucky: New York is expensive enough without people calling favors, but I’ve been keeping tabs on these bastards for a little while, including the… freaks, as you say, behind me.” So he  _ had  _ noticed. “The hunters that normally work through here have gone West for whatever reason, and if Brooklyn can’t have them, might as well take second best.”

“There’s other hunters here?” Frank asked.

“They’ve been gone a while,” Hambone admitted, face ducked like it was the first sore subject. “It’s not my place to ask questions, but people are still dead.”

“We’ll take second best,” Ray assured him. “Can you help us? We need a tail until our band plays tonight, then we take off with this lead and any at the club, promise.”

“Band, huh? You guys any good?”

“As good as hunters get in their free time,” Frank said.

Hambone nodded, then sighed. “Yeah, I’ll do it, this needs to be addressed as soon as possible. Unlike you, I like to see myself as a saint sometimes. Does wonders for my confidence.”

“He’s got a point,” Frank told Ray. “As a failed altar boy, you gotta think high and holy of yourself sometimes.”  _ When’s the last time you could call yourself holy, hm? _

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ray said dryly. “You have Frank’s number, just call if anything comes up. The only reason we wouldn’t answer is if we’re in the middle of our set.”

“So no mortal peril in the middle of your guitar solos? Noted.”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “How d’you know we play guitar?”

“Your hands. I haven’t seen them stop moving since I got here. Too lively to be a bass player, either.”

Hambone held up his own hands: long and bony, with visible blue streaks and calluses on each finger.

Ray was almost disappointed they couldn’t talk more about music, but their time was up if they wanted to be at the venue. And, with the gut hope that he wouldn’t regret it later, the gesture let Ray’s worry relax ever so slightly.

Maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea.

~

“Of course it’s a terrible idea,” Mikey said. The van shuddered against the asphalt in agreement. “We don’t know this Hambreak guy, and we can’t exactly trust anyone outside of our circle if we want a job done.”

Gerard stayed out of the argument, his steady driving on the unfamiliar streets being his excuse to concentrate elsewhere. Apparently the venue was close, but it would take peeled eyes to find.

“Hambone,” Ray corrected him. “And stranger or not, he’s still a mercenary, they’re not exactly known for fucking up, or there wouldn’t be any existing.”

“Plus the guy plays guitar,” Frank added. “I say we trust him.”

“That’s not much of an argument,” Mikey said to him, deflated.

Ray sighed, shoulders visibly shuddering. “Look, Bob knew him, okay? And if the guy’s from Jersey, Bob wouldn’t have him as a contact if he wasn't solid.”

Mikey was quiet, lips puckered to something sour.

“Look Mikey, we’re out of ideas if we want to play tonight, and I wanna get paid,” Frank said. “Make something good come out of this fucking trip.”

The car was quiet, until Gerard announced, with a rather lack of pomp and circumstance, “We’re here.”

The lot was small, but held enough maneuverability to get the van along the sidewalk, not inches behind a similar, shabby vehicle in order for it to fit and not stick out into the street.

Everyone divided into their respective jobs: Ray handling the small but heavy collapsable merchandise table, with Gerard following close behind with the box of unlabeled demos. It wasn’t much of an income, selling the only piece of merchandise that they could make, but the fact that the songs on the CDs were only two pieces performed by an early 90s band no one had heard, coupled with mariachi music as the backing tones, made for an easy and disposable few bucks.

Mikey lagged behind as Frank began shifting their individual instruments, the drum kit case having shifted sometime during the drive.

“Can’t wait to find another stranger for drumming tonight,” Frank told him. “Although that kid from last night wasn’t that shitty. I’ve upped my expectations.”

“Do you regret making this trip?” Mikey asked outright, not sure how to get Frank to talk about it.

Frank paused, hand resting on the plastic casing. To Mikey, he didn’t seem tense or in a bad place, but this couldn’t have been easy for him, it just couldn’t.

“Do you?”

The question had a bite that was unlike Frank—direct and full of venom. It caught Mikey off-guard, rendering him silent.

“Just drop it, Mikey, and let’s play the damn show.”

He hoisted the snare drum case out and into the venue without another word.

~


End file.
